


Hold Me By the Heart

by muchadoloo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attachment theory, Developmental Psychology, Din Djarin Is a Sweetheart, Fantasy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Protective Din Djarin, Separation Anxiety, Trauma, grogu will remain unnamed for the most part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22108096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muchadoloo/pseuds/muchadoloo
Summary: It was Cara who unwittingly laid it out for him.“You hand the kid off a lot.”The comment didn't seem antagonistic, just thoughtful. Something about him must have screamed confusion because Cara, ever-so-observant, continued.“It must be a lot on the kid, not knowing who wants him or where he belongs.” She shrugged and sipped her canteen. “Don’t get me wrong, I get it. That kid’s got a bounty over his head. Someone’s gotta protect the little guy. You can’t just stay in one place. Hell, you can barely hold him for long. I just figured the constant movement... Must be a lot.”Din felt like someone had doused him in cold water.——————————————————————————Or, the story where the Child has separation anxiety, Din learns that parenting is about being parented all over again and together, they discover what it means to be a family (all while being hunted through the Galaxy, of course).
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 505
Kudos: 1295
Collections: Movies





	1. The Problem

In retrospect, he really should have seen it coming.

Extended periods of time on the Razor Crest. Sudden attacks from bounty-hunters. Friends-turned-foes (although Din wouldn’t have called Mayfield and his lot ‘friends’ all things considered). Flying from planet to planet. Food shortages and water rations.

It was sporadic, Din knew. Inconsistent. Extremely erratic, but that was bounty hunting and Din had learned to adjust. Years of combat training had taught him to live reflexively. _Your reaction time must improve_ , his _buir_ had scolded him as a boy. _The space between life and death rests on seconds—and sometimes, even less than that. Unless you die as a warrior, you must strive to cheat death._ There could be no wasted time. No getting himself killed because he’d failed to anticipate challenges. The result—constant movement. The only way to cheat death was to outrun it.

He’d learned to pack up, pursue his bounty, and leave without a trace. He lived everywhere and no where. No attachments. No strings to tie up. Less mess. He’d adjusted to living in extremes — few wash-ups, picking up a job here-and-there, running on no sleep, rationing resources, and only grabbing a bite to eat when he might pass out from hunger. This was the life he’d chosen. If he wanted normalcy, he wouldn’t have sworn to the Creed.

This was the Way.

But, in retrospect, Din really should have anticipated how _this Way_ might impact the kid.

The mechanic had said half as much — _you can’t just leave a baby all alone in a ship_ —and at the time, watchingthe kid make some unintelligible, happy chirps as she cradled him, he’d said nothing. She was right. Din was a Mandalorian. A bounty hunter. He was no caretaker. He was no _buir._ And he knew next to nothing about raising a kid.

So, Din didn’t think twice about tossing a coin to a bumbling bartender on Abafar, asking him to watch the kid, before leaving to track an Abyssin bounty.

The track-down and capture wouldn’t take long. 40 minutes tops. 30, if the Abyssin didn’t fight back, lose a limb, and regenerate like Din’s first encounter with its kind. Turning in the bounty would reward him with enough credits to tide both he and the child over for another 3 weeks. He could refuel, purchase some rations, and maybe sleep for more than four hours.

Beads of sweat trickled down Din’s temple as he leaned against the bar’s exterior and adjusted the rifle strapped to his back. His muscles were beginning to ache. Nothing had been added to his armor; yet, somehow, the beskar felt heavier than normal.

“Damn _,”_ Din grumbled, only now realizing. He was tired — no, it was more than that. Din was extremely sleep deprived but, as usual, he only realized it when nothing could be done. He really was all helmet and no head. It was his own fault.

Sighing, Din pulled out the bounty puck and tapped it, restarting the hologram. The Abyssin’s cycloptic face rotated above the puck, flickering, then blinking back at him.

Din glanced back at the bar’s entrance. Laughter roared from inside, a blend of clattered glasses and merry tunes. The bar was functional at best. Thankfully, he’d spotted few drunks; the place was mostly sparsed with old-timers and lonely-nighters. Hence, not exactly the place for brawls and violence. The kid would be… _okay._

He looked back at the puck. _Well?_

Rolling his body off the wall, Din switched the puck off, and replaced it with the tracking phob. The job would be cleaned up soon. Abafar was a backwater dustbowl, spewing scorched sand and brush. Not to mention, the population density was laughable. The Abyssin wouldn’t get far.

Din adjusted the cuffs on his forearms, started his timer and, after stealing one last glance at the bar, headed out.

_39 minutes 59 seconds._

Except the track-down, capture, and exchange took a-hell-of-a-lot longer than 40 minutes and only when Din finally slipped out of the contact exchange tent did he realize how much time had passed.

“Dank Farrick,” he swore, staring up at the sky.

The suns were gone. It would take him twice as long to make it back.

Grumbling, Din tucked the pouch of coins in his belt and half-limped-half-trudged back to the bar, not bloodied but definitely bruised. Din didn’t know who to be angry at — himself for his own weariness and pride or the Abyssin and his failure to comply. Din had been physically weaker, and the Abyssin utilized the opportunity.

“Idiot,” Din spat, then wincing as a sharp pain flared on his left side. He shifted his weight to the right and trudged on.

He finally approached the bar as the winds began to pick up. Exhaling, Din glanced up and froze.

_The door’s sealed._

It was far too early to close.

Din drew his blaster and flattened his body against the domed wall. He flicked on his thermal scan and cursed before the viewer could clear. There would be no footprints. Any prints would have been swept away by the sand long ago. Din flicked off the scanner and surveyed the structure. _Frontal entrance. Two windows. One exit at the re-_

A muffled shrill erupted inside. _The kid!_

Instantly, Din grabbed an explosive from his belt. He pressed it against the door and hurried to the side of the bar. A series of beeps triggered the explosive, crumbling the door and sending up smoke.

Someone—a male voice— shouted and Din slipped inside.

Smoke clouded the room, but the kid’s shrills had not ceased. Din’s grip on his blaster tightened. He flicked on his headlight and scanned the bar.

Except for some chair legs broken on the floor and a few shattered bottles, the bar seemed empty and untouched. He moved forward slowly as the smoke began to clear.

Din heard groans, muffled and groggy, some feet in front of him. He saw legs and trained his blaster.

The person merely moaned in response. The smoke began to thin, dissipating, to reveal the young bartender from before, laying sprawled on the ground.

His head lolled to the side, unfocused eyes slipping past Din, then returning. Panicked.

He threw up his hands. “W-Wait, please—”

Din snatched him off the floor and slammed him up against the wall. “Where is he?”

The bartender yelped as he cringed, pressing his face against the stone. Blood and dirt ran down the side of his head.

“The kid! What did you do to him?” Din shouted, jabbing his blaster against the bartender’s temple. He didn’t wait for a reply. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I wouldn’t—! The baby…I,” the man stammered, looking about ready to soil himself. “You…You left and the kid wouldn’t…wouldn’t s-stop crying. It cleared...It cleared out the bar! I almost clawed my ears off so—”

“So you what?” Din tightened his grip on the bartender’s collar.

“I…I went…” The man visibly jolted and Din snarled. “I went to find something to calm it down!”

Din’s grip on the man didn’t loosen, but seeing as he hadn’t died yet, the bartender continued, still shaken. “I was…was just seeing i-if we had some milk w-when you…”

The bartender glanced at the destroyed door and visibly deflated.

Din flexed his hand on the blaster but chanced a glance back at the bar counter. True to the man’s story, there was a flask of blueish milk on the table.

“Father’s gonna kill me,” the bartender deadpanned, drawing Din’s attention back. “One day away…One day, he said—”

Din’s hands were beginning to shake, whether from rage or anxiety, he wasn’t sure. This sniveling bartender didn’t have the will to harm the kid. Give him up if threatened? Definitely. But harm? He couldn’t even block Din’s assault. So, if he didn’t hurt the kid, then where did he—

As if on cue, Din’s lower pant leg moved. More reactionary than curious, he looked down and instantly, he felt something bound in him unravel and slacken like kalpa sea-thread.

_The kid._

The child stared up at him, dark eyes big and wet, as he gripped Din’s pant. He looked surprised. No, sad. No. Din didn’t know what _that_ look meant. Maybe it was closer to relieved?

The kid buried his face in the fabric and shook. Crying.

Din’s blaster almost slipped from his hands, finally understanding. The kid wasn’t hurt. The kid was safe. The kid just missed him. He’d taken too long _again._ And left the kid behind _again._ But, _this time,_ he didn’t have anyone to berate and chide him like the mechanic had done.

The child’s wails started to grow louder, making both he and the bartender flinch. Din’s adam’s apple bobbed. His pant leg felt damp, almost thoroughly wet as the fabric stuck to his skin. He glanced back at the bartender.

The man flinched, looking less panicked but still shaking. _Unthreatening._

Din stepped back and deposited his blaster. Swallowing, he bent down and picked up the kid, tucking him into his arm, like he’d seen the mechanic do. Hopefully, calming. Hopefully, quieting. But the kid wailed, arms flailing until his nails snagged into Din’s under-armor and he climbed up and under Din’s neck, settling there.

Awkwardly, Din reached up and cradled him, just as the child burrowed his face under the folds of the fabric.

The bartender gaped, and Din felt his face warm under the helmet.

In the back of his mind, Din knew he should apologize or, at least, offer to pay for the destroyed door and chairs. The bar was a mess. Some sort of recompense for this misunderstanding might even help the owners. But how? This had never happened before. He didn’t know how to stay and clean up, to apologize for a miscalculation. He was never good with words and humility was always ill-fitting and awkward. Besides, the kid was crying and Din felt both the urge to shoot something and crawl out of his skin. He felt shaky and unstable, strange.

So Din did what he did best: snagged the milk flask, dropped some coins on the counter and left, on the move, again.

~*~

“We shouldn’t need to stop for a while,” Din muttered after they jumped from lightspeed. He flicked off the hyperdrive and adjusted the kid in the crook of his arm.

The kid just glanced up at him and blinked.

Din cleared his throat and tried again, speaking slowly. “We can lay low. Maybe choose a different planet soon and find some lodging. Sound good, you little womp rat?”

Again, the kid just stared. Din sighed, knowing the kid didn’t understand a word he said, and switched the ship to autopilot.

 _There really was no point in saying all that_ , he criticized.

Still, Din felt strangely antsy. Though it was sheer luck that the child had stopped crying, in spite of Din’s poor attempts to calm him, the silence that ensued felt even more unnerving. Even before they left Abafar, when they’d gone to fill up the Crest and purchase some food, the kid hadn’t made a sound. Silence had always befriended Din. He welcomed the quiet. Why, then, did it suddenly feel like an enemy?

“You must be tired.” He swung the chair around, stood, and placed the kid in his portable carrier. “Stay here and I’ll—”

The kid shrieked, arms flailing and for a second, Din thought something was wrong with the carrier.

“Hey!” Din calmed. He leaned in to scan the circular vessel. There were no sparks or outages from the buttons. The interior appeared normal.

“What’s wrong?” Din asked.

In response, the kid whimpered and made a grab for Din. Oh. _Oh._ The child keened and grabbed for him again — and missed. After the third failed attempt, the kid’s face crumpled and he began to cry.

“Hey, hey,” Din offered, voice shaky but considerably softer as he stepped closer. “I just need to make us some food.”

The kid let out a cry and swiped for him, but his fingers only brushed Din’s thigh. Tears dripped onto the carrier.

“O-Okay. Hold on,” Din hurried, picking up the child again and laying him against his shoulder. The cries immediately simmered to soft mewls, as if a switch had been turned off.

_Well that was…a first._

Sure the kid could be fussy, but never had Din seen this. The kid was abnormally clingy, clutching him and still whimpering into his shoulder. Something in his chest constricted, tightening, as the kid tried (and failed) to nestle even closer. It was his own fault, no one needed to tell Din that. But Din was tired; he’d figure it out tomorrow.

“Okay,” Din spoke slowly, testing the waters. The child only mouthed at his shoulder in response. _Good._ “Let’s try this again.”

Checking that the energy levels were stable and the autopilot held steady, Din dimmed the lights in the cockpit and walked into the ship’s empty room-turned… _something._

The room didn’t serve a particular function. Hell, Din barely knew how to keep the Crest running, let alone particularize a space. So, the area worked as a miscellaneous space to store random junk and give him a solid surface to lay out his maps. He attempted to eat on the steel table once, but that didn’t last long. With the bench barely functioning (there was a sharp dent in the middle) the lamp-light that worked only half of the time (and when it did, the light was too dim), and the drafty air, Din wasn’t interested in sitting to eat in there. Besides, there was something about eating in the same place where he’d decapitated a mercenary bounty a few years back that just killed an appetite. He did, however, use the room to store and warm up the foodstuffs.

Walking in, he hit the lightswitch on the wall. It flickered, humming as if it was considering blacking out, and finally settled on an unhelpful dim.

Steel shelves lined the walls. Usually, Din packed the foodstuffs on them, as their visibility made it easier to tell when food was running out. After leaving Abafar, though, Din had been too preoccupied with the kid to care. He’d dumped the food into a box and left. Other than the flask of milk he’d swiped and some forks, the shelves lay bare.

“So,” Din started, kicking an empty toolbox out of the way and maneuvering around a hunk of junk that even he couldn’t remember the purpose for. “What grub do you want tonight?”

He stepped up to the box holding the foodstuffs and jostled the kid slightly, nudging him to look. The kid just chirped and pressed his face into Din’s shoulder blade. Unhelpful.

“Hey,” Din attempted, turning his face to glance at the child. Accidentally, his helmet brushed against the kid’s ear.

The kid cooed, shifting to lean into the beskar.

Din cleared his throat, face warming. “I’ll pick then.”

He picked up a packet and squinted. _Blasted light._ “Favva bread.” The go-to meal. It was quick, solid, but not overly filling, not exactly nutritious either —not that Din cared about that— but it was food.

Din set the pack on the steel table, considering, and grabbed another packet. He held it up to the light. “Veg-meat.”

It was definitely hearty, definitely protein-packed, and would definitely taste like cardboard. Thankfully, Din was used to the lack of flavor and rarely paid attention to texture and taste. Food was food. As long as his stomach stopped eating itself, he was satisfied. He set the veg-meat on the table as well. Two options were enough. Yet, for some reason, Din still found himself rummaging through the remaining foodstuffs, suddenly picky.

He found some packs of _namba patties,_ a few _chuddles_ , and other foodstuffs that looked brown, browner, and more brown. Din grumbled under his breath and tossed a packet away, agitated. Only when he found himself scanning the ingredients in a nutrient capsule (what even was an _isolated_ _Weygar membrane_?) did the reasoning hit him.

_He wanted a better meal for the kid._

Din flushed, and threw the capsule pack back into the box. What was he doing? The kid ate frogs. _Frogs._ Surely he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a nutrient capsule and some favva bread. It didn’t matter. Din didn’t really care.

He snatched the favva bread off the table and walked towards the convection oven. Absentmindedly, he glanced at the child out of the corner of his eye. The kid was suckling on a tip of cloth from Din’s collar. Drool dripped onto his shoulder pad and the kid, too preoccupied to care, giggled.

Din cleared his throat and glanced down at the brown, dehydrated square of favva bread — then, back at the kid. The child cooed at him, slipped its wet fingers from his mouth, and planted a sticky hand on Din’s helmet.

“No,” Din retorted, removing the spit-slathered hand. The child giggled and shoved a mouthful of collar fabric back into his mouth.

Din turned to look back at the foodstuff and stilled. A wet, three-fingered handprint gazed back at him. He swallowed as drool dripped down his viewer. It wasn’t cute, definitely gross. Obviously gross.

Yet, somehow, Din found himself tossing the bread and grabbing the veg-meat packet from the table. _This is just because favva bread takes forever to cook._ He ripped it open, grabbed a canteen of water, dribbled it on the substance, and shoved it into the heating oven.

“Alright,” Din settled, knocking the dented bench out from under the table with his foot. He shoved the wrenches and maps off the table and pulled the kid from his collar. Immediately, the kid began to fuss. 

“No…” Din rolled out slowly, holding the child at arms length. The kid grabbed for him, but Din held him out further. “This can’t—I need to grab…”

The child let out a wail, but Din refused to give in. “You can’t keep doing this.”

The kid rubbed at his eyes, clearly attempting to calm himself, but tiny tears still pattered Din’s fingers.

“What am I going to do with you?” Din breathed, bringing the child close as his cries eased into hiccups.

The altercation on Abafar had been trying, maybe even startling for the kid, but not abnormal. Din had pursued bounties and hunters before. Even on Sargon, the kids had watched the child while Din and the community brought down the AT-ST and the band of raiders. There’d been heavy fire, considerably loud and life-threatening, but the kid had seemed fine. Normally, when the kid was particularly fussy or tired, a few minutes of cradling would quiet him, but clearly not this time.

Din sighed.

The lights on the oven door flashed, signalling the food was ready. He tucked the child into his arm, earning a few happy chirps from the kid, and turned the timer off. Steam curled from the oven, dissipating when he opened the door. The green square had ballooned to almost half the size of the plate. Din grabbed the plate and nudged the oven closed with his elbow.

He slid the plate across the table, starting to sit down, when on second thought—Din grabbed the flask of milk from the shelf. He deposited it next to the plate, and stepped around the steel table.

“Cups…,” he murmured to himself, spinning in a circle, scanning. He had at least two _somewhere._ Spying a cup on a tray, Din took it, grabbed a fork from the shelf, and plopped down on the bench. He set the child on the table in front of him.

“Ah.” Din held up a hand, just as a whimper escaped the kid’s mouth. “I’m right here.”

The kid sniffled, but otherwise, kept quiet. Din eyed him, then started cutting up the veg-meat with the side of the fork.

The child keened and Din glanced at him. “I’m right here.”

Though obviously unhappy, the child stayed still until Din finished cutting up the food. He sectioned the plate off and shoveled some onto the fork.

“Open.”

The kid opened his mouth and chewed the foodstuff slowly.

“Good?” Din asked, dropping the fork and resting his hands on his thighs.

The kid responded by pulling the plate towards him and shoving another piece in his mouth. Thankfully, the child was too preoccupied with filling his stomach to demand that Din hold him again. _Good._ Even so, it didn’t escape Din’s notice how the little tyke would stop and eye him, as if daring Din to move, before going to eat again. He could have groaned. Bedtime was going to be hell. Usually, Din had a fairly easy time laying the kid down to rest in his cradle, but now—

“Ehhh…” The kid warbled, fingers in his mouth. He tilted his head to the side, looking curious.

“Finish eating.” Din tapped the child’s clothed stomach.

But the kid pulled his fingers out of his mouth, revealing a green glob of foodstuff. He held it out to Din. “Ehh?”

Din grimaced. “No.”

The arm stayed extended, drool dripping onto the steel table.

“No, thank you.” Din led the child’s hand back to his own mouth. The kid glanced at him. Softer, this time, Din said, “It’s yours. Go on.”

After a pause, the kid resumed eating. He shoveled a few more pieces of the veg-meat into his mouth before he started pushing the green squares around the plate.

“Hey,” Din warned, just as the kid smashed a piece, erupting into giggles. Sighing, Din pulled the plate from the kid’s reach and tossed it on top the convection oven.

When he turned around, the kid was already wobbling over to the flask.

“Wait.” Din swiped the bottle, just as the child reached for it, and poured the milk into the cup. Pulling the kid onto his lap, Din guided it to the child’s mouth. “Here.”

The kid wrapped his hands around Din’s and drank. Trails of blue milk ran down Din’s fingers, wetting them, as the kid slurped from the cup. The kid’s green ears wiggled against Din’s chest as he tried to tilt the cup up.

Din smirked under the helmet and tapped the child’s hand with a finger. “Slow down, _ad’ika_.”

He stilled. The endearment had slipped out without him realizing. _It’s fine_ , he tried to calm himself, even as his mind began to race. Logically, Din knew the kid was in fact an _ad’ika —_ a child— so it wasn’t the endearment itself that was the issue. It was…something else. _You are as its father_ , the Armorer had said. The kid wasn’t just an _ad’ika._ He was Din’s child. The words weren’t so much haunting as they were revealing. It was like the Armorer’s words had seeped under Din’s beskar, dripping into his heart like honey.It’d surprised Din how easily he’d settled into the new role, accepted it, _wanted it._ There was the truth: he wanted it. What that _it_ was, Din didn’t even know. If anyone had asked him, Din would have denied any attachment. He was just keeping the kid safe. He was just doing what was right. This was the Way. But somewhere in the back of Din’s mind, he knew it was more than that. He was growing attached to the kid.

He didn’t want to fly too close to the sun; people like him got burned that way. But was it so bad to inch close enough to feel its warmth? Was it so bad to take care of the kid? Still, he didn’t trust himself. So, just in case, Din erected several, albeit unconscious, boundaries to keep himself in check. He kept his focus. Returning the kid was the ultimate goal. This life—flying with the kid, protecting him— wouldn’t always be this way. The Armorer had said it herself: Din needed to find the child’s kind. The kid was already 50 years old. The chances of Din staying in the kid’s life for long were slim. The child probably wouldn’t even remember Din when he grew up, and he’d be better for it. This violence, this _running—_ no child should have to remember that.

It was better this way to stay unattached. Life with Din...couldn’t be good for the kid. He needed things —constant attention, play, a family— that Din couldn’t give him.

A low coo and a squeeze stole Din’s attention. He looked down. The kid stared up at him, eyes big, as he gripped two of Din’s fingers.

“Ah?” The kid inquired, leaning his head back against Din’s stomach.

Din opened his mouth and found the words caught. He cleared his throat. “You done?”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped the cup on the table, picked up the kid, and stood. He looped around the table and flicked off the light.

As a habit, he glanced towards the cockpit. The ship was dark, save for a few flickering red lights and the soft glow of the space map, reflecting off the ship’s windshield. All was quiet.

Din turned into a small alcove. He hit a button, revealing the kid’s nook-turned-sleeping-area.

“Bed time,” he said, placing the kid in the nook.

The child looked down, eyeing the sleeping mat, and back up at Din. He held his arms out.

“Bed. Go to bed,” Din enunciated, reaching in and forcing the child to sit.

The kid caught Din’s hand on his way out. Keening, he tugged on Din’s fingers, unsuccessfully pulling him forward.

Din sighed. “I can’t fit in there.”

The child’s grip tightened.

 _This again._ Din could collapse from exhaustion, he was so tired. He didn’t know if he could argue with the kid for much longer.

Exhaling, he crouched down until they were eye level. He placed a hand on the kid’s head.

“Go to sleep, _ad’ika_ ,” he murmured, more tenderly than he’d meant to.

The kid whimpered and noticeably leaned in to Din’s touch.

“I’ll just be around the corner,” he convinced, rubbing the kid’s head.

Again, the kid caught his hand but this time, he just held it.

“You have to let me go,” Din stated. The child made a chirping noise and pressed the side of his face against Din’s palm. “No, No…”

But the more Din made to leave, the more the kid held on, begging him to stay. _Stubborn little—_

“Fine!” Din exclaimed, grabbing the kid out of the nook. He slid to the floor, more tired than agitated, and plopped the child on his lap. “There. Now, go to sleep.”

Cooing, the little womp rat snuggled up to his middle and laid his head against Din’s stomach. He fisted a corner of Din’s underarmor, chirped happily, and shut his eyes.

Din knocked his head back against wall, the beskar sending a ring through the metal plating. He’d just stay until the little bugger knocked out. Then, he’d slip back into the cockpit, re-navigate the ship, and climb into his bunk.

Din sighed, spent. The _whur_ of the engine sounded softer tonight, a result of a full tank. _Good._ At least, the stop on Abafar hadn’t been for nothing. They had enough fuel to keep them space borne for a couple of weeks. Din made a mental note to scan for a warmer planet, find lodging, maybe lay low for a day.

The kid whimpered in his sleep, shuddering against Din’s armor. Instinctively, Din wrapped his arms around him a little tighter.

Today had been a lot. An abnormality, but a stressor on both of them just the same. Din would be more careful next time. He’d keep a closer eye on the kid. It’d be different next time. The kid would be okay. Din didn’t doubt things would change and return to normal. More importantly, _the kid_ would return to normal. The clinginess was an after-effect, but the child would settle down. They just needed to get through tonight.

Satisfied, Din closed his eyes, letting the familiar hum of the _Crest_ lull him to sleep.

~*~

Except things _didn’t_ change.

In fact, if it were possible, things got worse.

Usually, it happened something like this — Din would be sitting in the cockpit or re-examining his maps or using the privy, but definitely doing something out of sight from the kid. Every time, like clockwork, the kid would start crying. Now, Din wasn’t an idiot. He knew the difference between an actual cry and a fake one, but the kid was tenacious (aka. a pain) and Din valued his sleep. The one time he did vow to put his foot down —flipping over in his bunk and covering his head with a pillow— the kid climbed out of his carrier, stood outside Din’s bunk, and stayed there...wailing. The _entire_ night.

He’d tried everything. Din tried unscrewing the metal ball on the steer; the kid threw it away. He handed the child a cup of milk; the kid pushed it away. When the kid refused to stay in his cradle, Din even tried singing the ancient serenades of Concordia. _Singing._ Despite the fact that Din couldn’t sing, he still made the attempt. The kid, with blanket in hand, responded by ~~singing~~ babbling along and staying up half-the-night to squeal for more songs. To that, Din also put his foot down and the crying ensued once more.

Suffice to say, Din was losing his mind.

The kid was glued to him. He refused to be alone for more than five minutes or stand on his own, and when Din actually managed to get the kid to do so, he always held on to _some part_ of Din— a boot, a section of under armor, a finger. Either way, where Din went, the kid followed.

It was obvious the kid just wanted his attention because, once he had it, he quieted, so that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that, for the life of him, Din couldn’t figure out _why._ It had been five days since the Abafarian incident. _Five._ And the kid had just proceeded to get worse.

Thankfully, it was Cara who unwittingly laid it out for him.

By day six, Din had been desperate and losing resolve. Somehow, the kid had found his ink pens, sidled up close to Din in the cockpit and proceeded to color — on the Crest’s floor, the electrical unit, on Din’s boots.

And that — that was the last straw.

So, he telecommed the only person that came to mind. Now, in the back of Din’s head, he knew he was signing up for a lost cause. Cara was a soldier. He could count on her guns, not any mothering instincts. She was no nursemaid. She could barely hold a baby, let alone know its needs. It wasn’t his wisest decision, but Din could care less. He’d made the call and managed to explain the situation, all while the kid slid down onto his lap, attempting to climb his shoulder with the ink pen.

“How the hell would I know?” Cara grunted, hands folded around a canteen. The telecomm muffled as she whipped around and shouted something at the person behind her. She turned back and shrugged.

“Cara,” Din gritted out, just as the kid heaved himself onto his shoulder, giggling.

“Well, I do have one idea…” She offered. “Might be a loose lead though.”

Din felt the kid steady his hand on his helmet, cooing. A scratching noise reverberated inside Din’s helmet, followed by a series of giggles.

Cara’s holoform leaned in and squinted. “Is he…drawing on your helmet?”

“The idea,” Din reminded.

“Fine, fine.” She held up her hands, though still snickering. After a pause, she said, “You hand the kid off a lot.”

The comment wasn’t antagonistic, just thoughtful. Something about him must have screamed confusion because Cara, ever-so-observant, continued.

“Like I said, it could be a loose lead…I didn’t think it mattered at the time, just an observation. But it must be a lot on the kid, not knowing who wants him or where he belongs.” She shrugged and sipped her canteen. “Don’t get me wrong, I get it. That kid’s got a bounty over his head. Someone’s gotta protect the little guy. You can’t just stay in one place. Hell, you can barely hold him for long. I just figured the constant movement... Must be a lot.”

Din felt like someone had doused him in cold water.

He eyed the child from the corner of his eye. The kid sat on his shoulder, currently using the pen to knock on Din’s helmet. The beskar rang and the kid bounced on his shoulder, giggling.

“So,” Din tried, swallowing. “The kid is…lonely?”

“I don’t know,” Cara threw up her hands. “All I know is I heard similar things on Alderaan. The war hurt all of us, demanded something, y’know? Some in my company had kids. Let’s just say it was hard on the little ones, but no one can hunt Imps and be home by bedtime. Just…doesn’t work that way.”

She leaned back in her chair. “But kids find a way to stay attached, I guess. There was this one guy, Fetz —great sharpshooter, by the way— whose daughter used to throw tantrums. Screaming, crying, the whole nine yards.”

“Did the kid stop?” Din asked.

“I don’t know,” Cara shrugged. “Didn’t see him much after that.”

Din figured as much.

The kid leaned forward, almost managing to topple off Din’s shoulder as he grabbed for the hologram.

Din plopped the kid on his lap. “No touching.”

The kid gurgled and mouthed the tip of the pen. Din grimaced, pulling the tool out of the child’s hands and dropping it on the floor. He had to find something better for the kid to chew on.

“Hey Din.”

His head snapped up. It was still odd hearing her say his name, knowing someone _knew_ his name.

“Yeah?”

“You’re out protecting him,” she said in a tone Din had only heard her use a handful of times. It was _softer._ “He might just be afraid you won’t come back. That’s all.”

He nodded, mumbled an incoherent ‘thanks’ and switched off the communicator.

Other than the steady beeping of the autopilot and a few suckling sounds coming from the kid, now mouthing on the mythosaur skull, the Crest was silent. Din spun the seat around and leaned back, thinking.

_So, there wasn’t much he could do…_

The kid would keep clinging to him and Din would have to adjust. He didn’t know how possible that was though. What would he do when they needed money? He’d have to hunt and the kid could, under no circumstances, tag along. Too dangerous. But how could he leave him on the ship now? So, maybe he’d have to bring the little runt? But the kid wouldn’t be satisfied to rest in his portable cradle alone. Din couldn’t hold him all the time either. He could make a carrier pack, but how could it protect the kid from being shot at?

Din groaned. It didn’t matter what angle he looked at the issue from. There was no good solution, but even that was only part of the issue. There was another side that Din didn’t even want to visit. Even so, the question materialized in his mind regardless.

 _How could he keep the kid from feeling abandoned?_ If Cara was right, then the kid’s behavior was a response to insecurity. But what could Din do? If they stopped moving, either one of Gideon’s imps or another bounty hunter would come after the kid. No, they had to stay on course. But the kid…

Din felt something in him constrict, almost trembling inside his chest. _There had to be another way…_

“Ehhh?”

He jumped and looked down at the noise. The kid stared up at him, hands planted on Din’s abdomen as he struggled to balance. Din grabbed the kid from under the arms and perched him on his chest.

The child gurgled, contented, and Din smiled underneath his helmet. “I’m here.”


	2. The Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. The response from you guys has been overwhelming. This fic was originally just meant to be a release for my imagination, but y'all's comments have been so kind. I'm honestly stunned by the reception. Please keep them coming. Thank you all so much for your kudos, bookmarks, and comments of love. 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy the first installation of chapter two.

The warning alarm blared the second the starfighter ship blasted Din’s right-wing engine.

_Engine failure. Engine failure. Engine failure._

“Noted,” Din grunted, spinning the Crest away from the laser blasts.

Beams flared around the ship, flung into black space. Din yanked the steering handle right, just as the starfighter swung up on his left. _Stars, he was hot on their tail._

“Give up the asset, Mando.” The hunter’s voice cut through the telecomm system.

Din hit the booster-speed and the Crest lurched forward, forcing his head back against the seat. Instantly, the right-wing engine sputtered, spewing out a gust of black soot. _Too much power._ Behind him, the kid whimpered.

“Hold on,” Din gritted out, even as the lights in the ship began to flicker. He bashed the hard frame with his fist. “Don’t you give up on me.”

The lights flickered back on. Then, the Crest jerked and Din heard something blow beneath them.

_Primer overheating. Primer overheating. Primer—_

“I know,” Din groused.

“You can’t run, Mando.” The voice returned, much to Din’s annoyance. The hunter yapped more than he shot. Now that — that was an advantage.

Mumbling ‘hold on,’ he flipped the Crest and circled around the smaller ship. Din trained the heavy artillery, aiming. The navigator beeped, flashing blue as it searched the screen. Suddenly, it flashed red. _Locked._

Din took the shot. The starfighter ship spun out of control and exploded.

And then — _System compromised. System compromised. System compromised._

The Crest jerked, shuddered, and powered off.

“Dammit.” Din stood and flicked on the emergency power boosters.

 _He had to land them and fast._ Tapping the navigation, Din expanded the planetary coordinates and almost cursed. The majority were lightyears away. They couldn’t afford to make a jump, not with so little power. The only option was—

Din groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 _Dantooine_. It was more than 30 miles away; they’d be lucky if they even brushed the rim.

The lights flickered out again and, somewhere in the darkness, the kid mewled.

“We’re gonna be okay,” Din said over his shoulder, even as the child cried out for him. He had an idea, but who knew if it’d even work?

 _System compromised. System compromised._ The alarm blared overhead. They’d run out of time; it was now or never.

Din set the course to Dantooine. Pulling back the thrusters, he pushed all the remaining power to the left-wing engine. He jammed the autopilot, prepped the feet for landing, and jumped out of his seat.

 _They didn’t have much time._ If all held steady, the stabilizers would hold the Crest for landing. It was unlikely though. They didn’t have much energy left. Din could only hope the landing wouldn’t break the ship.

Snatching the kid from the carrier, he sealed down the cockpit. The Crest shook, jerking from side to side as the alarm blared. Din lost his footing and slammed into an electrical panel.

The kid let out a cry, clinging to him. Din pulled the kid close and stumbled to the miscellaneous room.

_Hurry up._

Spying his rifle, Din grabbed it from the wall and threw the weapon inside an adjacent alcove. He laid the kid down inside and dropped to the floor just as the ship began to dive.

The child mewled and grabbed his arm. Din crowded over the kid, blocking him with his body.

“We’ll be fine,” Din breathed, but even he knew that was questionable. _If they made it, it’d be by the skin of their teeth._

The alarm blared overhead. Din cursed and glanced down at the kid. The child was whimpering, eyes wide, as red lights whirled across his face.

The kid reached out, placing a three-fingered hand on Din’s helmet. The ship tilted and Din slammed his hand against the wall, steadying them.

_They were diving too fast._

Suddenly, something creaked above him, falling.

Din’s head cracked against the beskar and all went black.

~*~

Din didn’t dream often.

But the few times when he did, his dreams played like memories. He was always a boy, back on his home planet, before the Imps and the droids attacked. The dreams would begin anywhere: sometimes, he was standing on the dirt-streets, waiting for his father. Other times, he was racing through the neighborhood with a band of brothers-turned-friends. Once, he was being tucked into bed by his mother and read to sleep by his father. In all cases, he was happy, warm, and safe.

Then, he’d wake up and hear the beeps from the ship’s navigation. It usually would take a few minutes, and then reality would hit him. There was no home. Din belonged nowhere. Yet, even when he tried to acknowledge that reality, some part of him still reached for the dreams, drawn back to them like a moth to a flame. But, like his parents, the dream-memories always slipped through his fingers. Gone.

The cold, silver steel of the Crest reminded him of where he was now.

Except, when Din woke up this time, it wasn’t to the beeping of the navigation system nor the chill of the steel interior.

No, Din opened his eyes to an ear-splitting headache, three whispering old ladies, and a gun in his face.

Correction: his gun. His rifle was in his own face.

“Move and I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap, Mando.”

 _Mando._ Din sat up and winced, a sharp pain split through his skull. He dropped back on the pillow, ears ringing. _Pillow._ He was on a bed?

One of the three women held the rifle pointed at him. The barrel split in Din’s vision, shifting back and forth, blurry. Din blinked twice and stared. The other two women stood behind the rifle-holder, clearly hiding. _Not much to hide behind._ They couldn’t be more than five feet. _Great._ He’d been kidnapped by a few grandmas.

The old-woman-holding- _his_ -rifle re-adjusted her hand on the balancing stock. _Posture confident,_ Din noticed. She knows how to use it. _Even better._

“Now, I’m gonna ask this once,” the old-woman-holding- _his_ -rifle threatened. “What’d you do with this little one?”

 _Little one?_ At the name, Din wrenched up again, almost passing out from the crushing weight in his head. The room spun as he glanced left, disoriented, and found what he was looking for. One of the old ladies —the short one with the big glasses— held the kid in her arms. At the sight of him, the kid wriggled and reached for him. No one, but Din, noticed.

Groaning, Din stumbled to his feet and found his hands bound — with his own cuffs. _Oh, you’ve got to be kidding—_

The old-woman-holding- _his_ -rifle blocked him, gun still pointed. “Oh, no you don’t.”

“Give…Give him to me,” Din managed out. It was meant to sound threatening, but Din just sounded exhausted. _The room was spinning again._

“Or what?” The old-woman-holding- _his_ -rifle (and an attitude) quipped back. “You’ll knock me over with your deadweight?”

“Maisy.” The other old woman warned, peeking out from behind her timidly. “May…Maybe you shouldn’t threaten him. You know what his kind are like.”

Din eyed her, and the woman audibly squeaked and jumped back behind the old-woman-holding- _his_ -rifle.

“Hey!” The ~~old-woman-with-his~~ — _the irritating one —_ growled at him. “Don’t you intimidate her or I’ll knock that stupid helmet off your head!”

“Maisy…” The timid one cautioned. “I…I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I’ll say,” glasses responded, slinging the kid around her hip. “We should’ve just killed ‘im and stripped his body for parts. We could’ve bought Myra that teakettle she’s been wanting since last harvest.”

Din stepped forward, wobbling on his feet, and caught himself on the bedpost. His head lolled to the side, barely following.

“Kill him?” The timid one shrilled. “Elgie, you’ve never killed someone in your life!”

“Well, a woman’s gotta start somewhere,” glasses (Elgie?) shrugged. “Why not start with a baby ‘napper?”

Din leaned against the bedpost, sweating. “Didn’t…I didn’t steal him.”

Once again, Din found himself staring into the barrel of his own gun. “Quiet, you.”

The irritating old woman squinted her eyes at him, daring him to say something else. _If he could just reach his blaster…_

“Now, I asked you a question and I think you’d better answer it.” She nudged Din’s shoulder with his rifle. “And don’t you get any funny ideas in your head. You won’t find that blaster or knife of yours anywhere. You’re stripped clean. Now, what’d you do with the baby?”

“He’s…” Din trailed off, lights flashing in his eyes.

“Maybe we should question him later.” Sounded like the timid one again. “Y’know, when he isn’t concussed?”

“Sure, Aea. Why not make the baby ’napper comfortable?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Oh, I know exactly what you meant. You just want to…”

Din felt like his head was about to split open, and the bickering didn’t help. His body swayed, feeling heavier by the second. There was a loud clatter, a scream, and Din suddenly found himself staring at the ceiling. Somewhere, he heard a baby wail. Were there two lamps on the ceiling before?

“Now, look what you’ve done!”

“What I’ve done?” _The irritating one again._

Din swallowed, attempting to speak. “I’m not—”

“You must really have a death wish, Mando.” Something jabbed his helmet. Pain exploded in his skull. “Not only did you crash into my home and obliterate my turnip garden —which, for the record, I’m charging you for— with that hunk o’ junk ship of yours, you nabbed a baby. You can’t fool me. I’ve never seen one of your kind, trailing around with a wee one. You’re hunters. So, unless you have something of value to say, I suggest you shut it.”

Once again, the bickering started up. Back and forth, back and forth until Din could barely recognize any of their voices. How did he even get here? Where was his ship? He couldn’t think straight. And the kid… They thought Din kidnapped him. It didn’t matter what he said, they wouldn’t listen.

“He’s…my son,” Din tried.

The bickering stopped, and then—

“You expect me to believe that?

Din rolled his head against the floor. _Of course not._ A low guttural moan crooned from somewhere, and it took Din a couple of minutes to realize it was coming from him.

“W-Wait—” He suddenly heard one of them say.

Something pulled at his under-armor, and suddenly Din felt it climb on him. Groaning, he lifted his head up and found himself face-to-face with two big black eyes. At the sight of him, the kid cooed and planted his hands on Din’s helmet. He blew a spit-bubble against the viewfinder and bounced on Din’s chest, giggling.

A pin could have dropped.

“Now, you’ve really done it, Maisy.”

“ _I’ve_ done it?”

And for the second time, Din passed out.

The next time Din opened his eyes, it was to the sound of humming.

The first thought he had was that, whoever was singing, wasn’t half bad. The second thought —far more important than the first— was that, apart from some in the Covert, he didn’t know anyone who could sing like that.

Instantly, Din sat up and reached for his blaster — and came up empty.

“O-Oh, you’re awake.”

Din’s head whipped towards the voice and instantly, he regretted it. A sharp pain exploded in his head and Din leaned back against the headboard, groaning.

“Careful. You…You still have a concussion.”

 _A concussion, huh? Fantastic._ Din rolled his head to the side and found himself staring at the timid older woman from before.

She jumped and took a considerable step back, looking at everything but Din.

 _Good._ Din had never killed an old woman before, but suddenly, it was materializing in his head as an option. They’d taken the kid, his rifle, his blaster and, judging by the sudden chill he felt, stripped all the armor off of him too — save for his helmet. That was a relief, but not one that warmed him enough. A far more important thought dominated his mind.

“Where’s—” Din cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice even. “Where’s the kid?”

The old woman flushed and opened her mouth, when a sudden whimper caused both of them to jump.

“Oh!” The timid woman turned, crowding around a wooden carrier. She turned back, holding something, and Din felt his heart race. _The kid._ “He’s been crying for you ever since, well….”

The kid whimpered again, reaching out for him.The woman deposited the child on the bed and immediately, the kid started clambering up Din’s body. He climbed onto Din’s chest and slid back down. Again, he tried climbing and tumbled back down. He looked up at Din, fussing, and held out his arms.

Din grabbed the child and pulled him to his chest. Without thinking, he released a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. This was the second time Din had felt this scared — the first, on Abafar. It was almost consuming. Din attempted to stave off the fear, but it was already blooming in his chest. Would it always feel like this with the kid? Would he always feel this protective?

“I’m so sorry.”

Din glanced up. The old woman hung her head, actually looking remorseful. “There’ve been some kidnappings around here…remnant Imperials recruiting children. Of…Of course you’re not Imperial, but we’d thought, you being a bounty hunter and all, that you were, y’know…”

 _Hunting under the table._ Din had heard of such hunters — agreeing to steal children from their home planets, so Imps could train them as stormtroopers. _Scum._ Such work had never appealed to Din, regardless of the rewards. Kids were off the table.

“Even so, it’s no excuse for all we’ve put you both through,” she continued, wringing her hands. Gnawing on her lip, she grabbed a basket from a rocking chair behind her and placed it by Din’s feet like a peaceoffering.

“Bacta spray won’t work on you, but there ’s an ice pack and a few pain killers in there.”

Din eyed her distrustfully, but didn’t say a word.

She averted her eyes again, glancing back at the door instead. “I’ll give you two some time alone. We’ll be waiting for you downstairs when you’re ready.”

She pulled the door behind her, then stopped, peeking her head back in. “O-Oh and my name is Aea, if you need anything.”

Then, much to Din’s relief, the door finally closed.

He exhaled and looked at the kid. “Seems like we’ve got ourselves into trouble again.”

The kid tilted his head, definitely not understanding, and planted a hand on Din’s helmet instead. Din smiled and removed the hand, only now looking past the kid to examine their whereabouts.

They were in a small room. It was simple, flowery. Flowers on the walls, flowers on the bed — there were even flowers on the bedside table. A fire crackled in front of the bed, sending sparks up the chimney. Fresh logs had been added recently, he noticed.

 _So, they’d landed._ Where, Din didn’t know. They could be on Dantooine, but he wasn’t sure.

The kid climbed off Din’s chest and wobbled over to the basket. Cooing, he climbed inside. He looked back at Din.

“Having fun?” Din smirked.

The kid responded by poking the ice pack and, feeling the cold, started giggling.

Carefully, Din scooted to where both the basket and the kid sat and looked inside. Just as the woman had said, an ice pack, a pouch of pain killers and a towel stared back at him.

Din picked up the pouch and examined the dark blue capsules. The kid cooed beside him, clearly looking at them too.

Din held them up. “What do you think? Safe?”

“Ah?” The kid inquired, revealing a set of tiny teeth.

“I didn’t think so either,” Din responded, tossing the pouch in the basket. _He’d rather take his chances with his own stuff._

Din reached around himself and into his belt, patting.

“Ah,” he said, pulling out a small tin pack and shaking it. The pills rattled inside. _At least they hadn’t swiped these._ He’d take some later.

He slipped them back into his belt and sat. A dull throbbing pulsated under his forehead. His ears still rang too, but at least the room had stopped spinning. Din glanced toward the window. _Sun’s setting._ He couldn’t remember what time it’d been the first time he’d woken up. Either way, they needed to leave wherever-they-were and fast. It wouldn’t be long before some hunter tracked them again.

First, Din would find where they’d hid his weapons. He’d track down his ship too, and then, he and the kid would skip town. _In and out._

But first downstairs…

“I guess it’s now or never,” Din muttered mostly to himself.

Steadying himself on the bedpost, Din stood up and winced. The same weight from before pressed down on his head. He swayed a bit, but found he could stand. He picked up the kid and tucked him in his arm.

Exhaling, Din opened the door and stepped outside. A banister led downstairs and, after scanning the hallway and finding it empty, he walked down the stairs.

Muffled voices met him half-way down; they shushed and quieted the second Din hit the landing. He found himself standing in a kitchen. The three old women sat at an adjacent table, staring at him.

“Well?” One of them said. Din recognized her as the woman who’d taken his rifle. Instantly, his mood soured. “Y’gonna sit down?”

Slowly and without taking his eyes off any of them, Din sat.

“I know we started out on the wrong foot,” The old woman began, crossing her hands behind her head and leaning back in her chair. “But how about we let bygones-be-bygones and call it even?”

“Maisy!” The one from before named Aea, exclaimed. She looked at Din, turning red. “I-I’m sorry. She doesn’t mean that—

“As if I don’t,” The one called Maisy threw back. She looked at him and smiled. Din could have shuddered. _Scary._

“You tried to kill me,” he finally said.

Her smile dropped. “You destroyed my turnip garden.”

“Listen, old lady—”

“Who’re you calling old, tin can?” She countered. Maisy squinted and slammed her hands down on the table. “You have two seconds to wipe that stupid look off your face, Mando.”

He had in fact been glaring at her — not that he’d admit that.

“Well,” The one with the glasses rolled out, hobbling into the kitchen with a cane. “If you two are going to bicker, how about we have some tea?”

She held up a kettle and began pouring into small cups. Steam billowed from the spout, shrouding the woman’s face. She lifted a cup to him, glasses fogged.

“You just tried to kill me and now you want to have tea?” Din deadpanned.

“Would you let that crap go?” Maisy huffed. “Geez, give it a rest already. You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“No thanks to you,” Din replied, voice muffled through his modulator.

Maisy’s eyes squinted into slits. “I could still kill you.”

Din met her glare, but ignored the threat. “Where’s my ship?”

“Trashed,” Maisy responded, looking far too pleased. “As it should be. Serves you right for—”

“We’re planning to fix it up,” Aea interrupted, shooting a glare at the Maisy. “We’re mechanics, you see.”

No, he didn’t see. They looked almost seventy, maybe even eighty. One used a cane, while the other two clearly hobbled. Din was also pretty sure Glasses was wearing Spectometers — triple bifocals. No one could see in those.

“You’re not going anywhere near my ship,” Din warned, resting his forearm on the table.

“Then, you’re not going anywhere,” Maisy retorted. “Without our help, that hunk o’junk of yours won’t even fly two miles.”

Din grit his teeth. “I don’t need your help.”

Aea started.“B-But your concussion—“

“I don’t need your help.” Din repeated. “Return my weapons and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Maisy smirked. “No-can-do, Mandy—”

“—Mandy?” Din growled.

Maisy had a smile that could curdle water. “In no ways, are we letting you take a young one in the state you’re in. You’re just gonna have to stay here until your concussion heals.”

“That could take weeks.”

“And you won’t make it an hour without passing out. So, I suggest you do as we say, rest up, and let us repair your ship.”

Din had a response ready, but a sudden mewl stole his attention.

The kid looked up at him, eyes starting to water. Din had almost forgotten the child was there, he’d been so quiet.

“What is it?” Din murmured, voice considerably softer.

The room had gone silent. Din felt their eyes on him and a sudden heat started to travel up his neck.

The kid whined and grabbed at his arm, fussing.

“He’s probably hungry,” Glasses said. She wiped her hands on a towel and snatched something from the counter. After hobbling over with her cane, she deposited a bottle in front of him. “Here, I made this for ‘im a bit ago. Should still be warm.”

“What’d you put in it?” Din asked, eyes narrowing.

“For goodness sake, Mando!” Maisy exclaimed, huffing. “ _You_ might be no knight in shining armor, but we wouldn’t poison a baby!”

Din glared at her and chanced a look at the child. The kid was keening, reaching for the bottle across the table. His claws swiped the handle and, coming up empty-handed, he began to sniffle.

Exhaling, Din pulled the kid against his chest and grabbed the bottle. He held it up to the child’s mouth and the kid latched on greedily.

For a moment, only the sounds of the kid’s suckling could be heard. All their eyes were on the kid.

“Shouldn’t you cradle him? It’d be easier,” Maisy offered. Din turned to her, ready to retort when he noticed the look in her eyes. _Soft._ He didn’t think it was possible.

He glanced down at the kid. Milk was trickling around the kid’s mouth, forming a small pool on Din’s lap. Sighing, he pulled the bottle from the child’s mouth, earning a brief cry, before tucking the little bugger into his arm. He brought the bottle close and the kid latched on once more.

Distantly, Din could feel the women’s eyes on him now, but he ignored them. The kid’s hand flared over the bottle, and found Din’s pinky. Still suckling, the kid grabbed on and squeezed.

“What’s his name?” Aea asked, eyes trained to the little one.

Din glanced at her, feeling the exhaustion slip from his mind and into his body. He was too tired to fight. Besides, the dull throbbing in his head hadn’t gone away. Frankly, he felt drained.

“He doesn’t have one,” Din confessed. “Not yet.”

She nodded, seeming to understand. Din knew it was abnormal, but he hoped none of the women would push it. At least, not tonight.

“Alright, come and get it while it’s still hot,” Glasses shouted from the kitchen.

Giving the kid one last look (and shooting a glare at Din), Maisy stood from her chair and swiped a teacup from the kitchen. Din’s eyes followed her until she disappeared into a step-down sitting room.

The kid gurgled around the bottle and a smile tugged on Din’s lips. Out of the corner of his eye, Din saw the woman, Aea also smile, a wistful look in her eyes.

She caught him watching and ducked her head, standing. “We usually have tea…tea in the sitting room. You can continue feeding the young one in there.”

With nothing else to do and no fight left in him, he nodded and stood. The room tilted and Din steadied his hand on the table, grimacing. _He needed to take those pills and soon._ Aea took a tea cup and stepped into the sitting room. Din slipped by the kitchen too and stopped, the tea cups catching his eye. Cups, plural. There were two and only one woman left. That meant…

“I’ll have no tea,” Din stated.

Glasses shrugged. “Sit still and look pretty then.”

And this is how Din found himself sipping tea in a sitting room with three cankerous old women. Though, obviously, he wasn’t drinking any tea, he still felt just as ridiculous sitting in the purple room (truly, the room was draped in purple from top-to-bottom) as the women sipped on _their own_ tea.

_How did he even get here?_

“Probably wondering how you got stuck with us, huh?” Maisy asked, setting her tea down. His surprise must have shown because she added, “You had that stupid look on your face again.”

For a second, Din wondered if he was even wearing a helmet.

“Ship crashed here two days ago, but you’ve been here for four,” Maisy explained, slurping on her tea in such a way that made even Din grimace. “I doubt you’ll want to see it — looks a right mess. Your external combustion engine is blown to bits, and your internal combustion is just as bad. Two of your blasters are gone. You’ve got carbon build-up everywhere. You’ll need the full works. ‘M surprised you even made it to Dantooine in one piece. ”

 _So they had made it. But four days?_ They’d already stayed too long.

Din hesitated before responding. “How long before the ship’s fixed?”

“Mm a week. Two, if we have to ship in new parts.”

Din winced. “I can’t wait a week.”

“Well, Mandy, you’ll just have to,” Glasses piped up, setting down her cup. “You want things to be safe and sound for the little one, don’t you?”

Din glanced down at the kid, still suckling the bottle. The milk pooled around the inner lid, almost gone. “Yes, but—”

“Then, it’s settled!” Maisy clapped her hands, resolved. “You can stay in the room upstairs. We’ll work on that piece of crap you call a ship, and in the mean time, you and your youngin’ can sit tight.”

Din narrowed his eyes at her. He’d let the insult slide.

“Ay-ah.” The child cooed, drawing his attention. The kid’s eyes were soft, squinted and sleepy as he chewed on the bottle’s nipple, slathering it in spit. Din slipped the nipple out of his mouth and laid him against his shoulder.

“Wait,” Aea suddenly said, standing up. “Elgie, where’d you put the—”

Glasses—Elgie— pointed her cane out the room. _Oh, yes, that was her name._ “I had Maisy take the crib down from the old room just this morning. Should be in the hallway.”

Din looked between the two of them, confused, and watched as Aea hurried out the room.

The one with the glasses, Elgie leaned forward and winked. “My sister always thinks of these things.”

He started. “Sister. You are sisters?”

Maisy rolled her eyes. “We’re all sisters, Mandy. Don’t you see the resemblance?”

Din looked between the two of them. Maybe a resemblance in the nose —both were narrow and pinched— but no, Din didn’t see any other similarities. Before he could say as much, Aea hobbled back into the sitting room, carrying a small crib.

Din stood and swallowed as she set the crib before him. “Thank you…for this.”

Aea’s wrinkled cheeks pinked as she nodded and hurried back to the sofa.

Carefully, Din lifted the kid from his shoulder and laid him down. Someone had folded several blankets inside and threw in a thermoplush, some colorful rings, and other toys he didn’t recognize. Din didn’t doubt it’d been the woman, Aea. _But where did they get all of this?_

Din smoothed one of the blankets over the child, but the kid made a grab for Din.

“Go to sleep,” Din soothed, placing a hand on the kid’s stomach.

The kid pulled himself up with Din’s hand, the blanket falling off. The child held out his hands for him, keening.

Despite himself, Din glanced at the women, suddenly embarrassed as he felt his face heat up. Aea, thankfully, averted her eyes, but the other two continued to stare, unabashed. The heat in Din’s cheeks flamed as he looked back at the kid.

“I’m right here,” Din murmured, trying to keep his voice low. _As if they couldn’t hear him already._ “Rest.”

The kid whimpered, now leaning against the crib. After a second of Din still not moving, the child’s eyes filled with tears and he started to wail.

“Hey…” Din hovered over the crib, hoping the nearness would quiet the kid. The child sniffled, snot trailing down his nose, as he pulled at Din’s sleeve.

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” Din hurried to calm, feeling the women’s eyes still on him. He lowered his voice, hoping they wouldn’t hear him, and caressed the kid’s head. “ _K’uur. Ad’ika, k’uur_.”

 _Hush._ Thankfully, the child’s wails softened into hiccuped whimpers (though tears still filled his eyes).

“ _Gar serum,_ ” Din affirmed, still stroking the kid’s head. “You’re okay.”

The kid leaned in to his touch as a tear dripped onto Din’s hand. Din’s heart clenched and he leaned in, still whispering broken Mando’a to the child. It’d been so long since he’d spoken the language, even Din struggled to piece the words together. After the Covert was forced into hiding, few spoke Mando’a. If anything, the language was spoken in hushed tones, afraid the wrong person might overhear. As if they were afraid someone would take their native tongue too.

The child’s whimpers quieted, considerably lessening until he sat back in the crib. He stared at Din for a while, as if afraid he would leave. When Din didn’t move, the kid’s eyelids drooped and finally, he laid down, suckling on one of the toys.

 _So Cara was right._ The kid still refused to be anywhere but right up under him. For a second, guilt invaded Din’s chest, weighing him down like a stone. He had to figure out another way to satisfy the child, for his own sanity and the kid’s. _But how?_

“He’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”

Din started and caught Aea’s timid smile. He’d forgotten that they were watching. She circled the rim of her teacup, eying the child.

Soft snores rose from crib as the kid lay sound asleep. Din reached in and smoothed the blanket back on top of him, hand resting on the child’s side.

“Yeah, he’s got you whipped good.” Maisy said. After a moment’s pause, she added, “It’s odd seeing one of your kind so…domestic.”

For the first time in a while, Din almost laughed. He bit his lip, swallowing it and instead, an amused smile pulled at his lips.

“Maisy, stop teasing,” Aea chastened, looking at him apologetically.

“What do you mean? All I’m saying is…”

Din tuned them out as the conversation escalated into a hushed argument, to where even the four-eyed one, Elgie got involved. Again, Din surprised himself and almost laughed. Whether because of the craziness of the situation, the insanity of the sisters, or his concussed brain, Din wasn’t entirely sure. The situation felt like deja vu.

A yawn threatened on Din’s lips and only then did he realize how heavy his body felt. _Spent._

Slowly, he stood. “I’m going to head up.”

The argument broke and all three women turned to stare at him.

“Of…Of course.” Aea nodded. “It is getting late. We should all head to bed.”

As gently as he could, Din picked up the kid and held him against his shoulder. He stilled, tilting his face. Soft snores whispered in his ear. _He’s knocked out cold._

Din nodded at the women and slipped out the sitting room. A soft orange glow illuminated the kitchen stovetop, but other than that, the area was dark. _The woman, Elgie must have switched off the lights._

Din angled around the counter and trudged up the stairs. When he reached the top-floor landing, he stepped into the bedroom and locked the door shut. He leaned against the wall and exhaled.

_What a day._

A sudden chill cut through Din’s clothing, and he eyed the fire. Only black piles of ash remained. _Must’ve died a while ago._ Carefully, Din set the child on the bed pillow. The kid breathed out a high-pitched snore, shuddered, and turned over. Din smirked, his fingers ghosting over the kid’s shoulder.

Still smiling, he walked over to the fireplace and grabbed some kindling. He sparked the fire to flame again, added a few logs to the burning embers, and returned to sit on the bed. A throbbing pulsated in his head as he sat. _He needed the relievers._

Sighing, he pulled out the medicinal tin from his belt, set it on the bed, and popped open the lid. A cluster of white pills stared back at him, waiting. _He’d need to remove his helmet to take them._ Din glanced back at the sleeping form of the kid. A green ear peaked out from underneath the blanket, while soft snores rumbled against the pillow. In truth, the kid could see him without his helmet. The Mandalorian Creed did permit foundlings to know the face of their guardians, but Din hadn’t performed the adoption vow yet. He could still show his face, though definitely unorthodox, especially now that the child was in his care. Still, something in Din wanted the structure of the vow. Many times, he’d almost said the words, but there was always _something_ that held him back. He’d come up with a million excuses — t _he timing wasn’t right, he should prepare the child, he should wait until they were settled and secure—_ but even Din knew timing and placement weren’t the issues.

There was a sense of finality about the vow, a permanence. The kid wouldn’t just belong to him, Din would also belong to the kid. So, maybe the real truth was that Din was preparing himself — to be a father. He’d never been anyone’s _anything_ , not since he was a foundling himself. Now, another life would depend on him. For the first time, Din wouldn’t be able to rely on his combat training: this was something his training could not teach him.

Din winced, the headache now pounding against his head. He stared back down at the pills. _Well?_ Hesitantly, Din lifted his helmet and set it on the bed.

A shudder ran through him, the heat from the fire warming his face. A prickly feeling, which Din recognized as discomfort, attacked his body. It always felt odd removing his helmet, even alone. Din felt almost naked without it, more vulnerable. Most of the time, the feeling was so unbearable he’d scarf down his food and shove it back on. The longest the helmet stayed off was when Din slept and even then, he wasn’t awake to stave off the itching feeling.

He eyed the kid again. The blanket still rose and fell softly. A smile tugged at Din’s lips as he grabbed two pills from the tin. He popped them in his mouth and swallowed, grimacing.

 _That should tide him over until morning._ They usually took an hour or so to kick in, but by the time Din washed up and readied for bed, the throbbing should have lessened. He’d just need to—

Somewhere, behind him, Din felt the bed dip. “Eh?”

He whipped around and found himself face-to-face with the child.

_Damn._

Din swallowed and, much to his surprise, felt an odd sense of insecurity wash over him. How long had it been since he’d last shaved? And his beard — Din could feel the stubble pricking his skin. Most days, he opted to stay clean-shaven. For some reason, his beard (if you could call it that) made him look awfully malnourished, rather than rugged. And his hair — he needed to cut it— was shaggy, brushing his shoulders now. Din couldn’t recall the last time he’d bathed either, so who knew what he smelled like? He looked a right mess.

The kid tilted his head, confused, as he examined Din’s face.

Din’s adam’s apple bobbed. He tried to speak, but found no words came out. They seemed almost caught in his throat, like he’d swallowed a stone.

“Eh?” The child chirped again, wobbling closer.

Din fought the urge to scoot back. Instinctively, he grabbed his helmet.

The kid glanced at the helmet, then back at him—then, at the helmet again.

Din’s hand fell off the beskar and he met the kid’s eyes, swallowing. “ _Ad’ika.”_

The child visibly jumped, eyes widening as he gazed at Din like he was seeing him for the first time. Din wanted to slap himself. _Idiot_. _The kid was seeing him for the first time._

“Ah?” The kid inquired.

Din scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, it’s me. _This_ is…me, I guess.”

He winced. _Weird,_ hearing himself without the modulator.

The kid cooed, making a handful of unintelligible gurgles as he wobbled over to Din. He tripped over a wrinkle and fell on his face. The kid shook his head, disoriented, and planted his hands on the bed to steady himself. The child hobbled over to him and placed his hands on Din’s thigh, staring up at him.

Din sighed and deposited the little one onto his lap.

“I’m doing this all wrong, not that you’d know the difference,” Din started. The kid chirped happily in response, seeming to like whenever he spoke. “But first, you’re obligated to know my name in case something happens to me.”

The child cooed and touched Din’s mouth.

Din fought the urge to smile —this was serious— and swiped the kid’s hand off.

“My name is Din Djarin. You’ll have to remember that,” Din spoke, fighting to keep his voice even as the kid clapped, bouncing on his lap. “Listen kid—”

The child grabbed Din’s cheeks and giggled.

 _This wasn’t going to work._ Huffing, Din pulled him off, earning a few unhappy chirps from the kid, and held him at arms length.

“This is serious business.”

The kid’s ears slumped as he tucked his face under the fold of his own collar. Din grit his teeth, refusing to give in.

“You have to listen,” Din chastened. When the kid didn’t make any further sounds, he retraced his steps. “I need you to know my name. If something happens to me…you must remember that I am now your—”

Din cut off and breathed out slowly, meeting the kid’s eyes. The child chanced a soft coo, seeming to understand the seriousness of the moment. He mewled, and Din brought him close again.

Din cleared his throat. “I…have never been anyone’s _buir_ so you’ll have to be patient with me.” The kid stuck his fist in his mouth, gurgling happily. “But you are now my son and you’ll know me as your father.”

The fire crackled in front of them and the child jumped, turning to the fireplace. He babbled and reached out for the fire.

Amused, Din shook his head as he watched the child drool around his fist and grab for the sparks with his other hand.The tension in his body unravelled and, for the first time, the discomfort Din usually felt settled. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel so awkward with his helmet off.

He chanced a smile at the kid and tucked him into his arm. The child squirmed and pulled his arms out. Cooing, he touched Din’s mouth again.

This time, Din didn’t remove it. For the first time, he allowed himself to cross a boundary. He imagined a different life — one where he could take care of the kid, one where he was a little attached, one where he was a father. _A good father._

Din cupped the hand on his lips and murmured, “Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad.”

_Now, I know your name as my child._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, kudo, bookmark, or drop a comment if you enjoyed this chapter or would like to see more.


	3. The Nurturing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to expand the story from four segments to five! Again, thank you all for your love and support. Please enjoy the third installment.
> 
> ALSO: I decided to start leaving psychology or analytical blurbs about Din in the 'End Notes.' I must warn you: if you read it, you're entering into a jungle of nonsense and random thoughts. Honestly, analyzing Din (the Mandalorian) is literally a side-job for me. So, I can be off the rails. Nevertheless, to give y'all a peek into the writing process and just my own personal thoughts, there will be a 'Psych Corner with Din' section at the end of every chapter (starting now).

Din had never been on ‘bed rest’ before.

It was a fairly foreign concept. Ever since he’d rescued the kid from the Imperial Client, they’d been on the move, planet-jumping. Staying in one place for too long would undoubtedly leave imprints — patterns of behavior that even a novice hunter could track. Din had learned long ago that most people were creatures of habit — there were taverns they frequented, locals who knew them by name, bars they enjoyed — and over time, this resulted in an imprint. It was both a trace and a sign: someone, preferably the bounty Din hunted, had been there. The job of a bounty hunter was to find those imprints and follow them to the assigned asset. So, when Din took the kid, he made sure to scatter their charts, change routes, and never frequent the same fueling station twice, no matter how competitive the prices. Thankfully, the Crest evaded detection from both Imperial and Rebel scanners, but his armor still drew attention. Add-in the fact that hunters from all over the galaxy carried tracking phobs on the kid, and Din could forget about staying hidden. Any chances they’d had to lay low dissolved when they left Nevarro. Thus, they needed to move — _and often._

Then, they’d crashed, Din picked up a concussion and, all at once, his plans had gone up in smoke. Now, he was on —what Aea called — bed rest.

“You can relax in the room upstairs,” she explained when he’d asked what _bed rest_ even was. “Or you…well, you could go for a walk with the little one? I’m sure he’d appreciate the warm air. Just don’t do anything strenuous.”

Din blinked. “A walk?”

She popped a tray of brown-looking globs into the oven and smoothed her hands on her apron. “You can enjoy the fresh air. Walk around with no destination. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Din started. _With no destination?_ People got themselves killed that way.

“That sounds…risky,” Din doubted.

Aea gave him a look that, for some reason, left Din feeling stupid. “To go on a walk?”

Suffice to say, after ‘resting’ in bed for the entirety of 20 minutes (and almost having an aneurysm), Din took the kid and tried going for a walk. Except when Maisy looked up from the triple carburetor and shouted — _what the hell are you doing? Chasing a Nexu?_ — at him, Din figured he was doing it wrong.

Hence why Din gave up and opted to lean against one of the biba trees, fold his arms, and watch the kid waddle through the grasslands. The child babbled as he weaved through the reeds, trailing butterflies around the yellow field. A blue one landed on his nose and Din found himself smiling as the child plopped down on the grass.

The kid clapped his hands together and smashed the insect. Cooing, he eyed the blue goop slathered on his hands and stuck a fist in his mouth.

Din jolted up from the tree. “Hey! Spit that out.”

The child wobbled to his feet and waddled away.

Sighing, Din chased after him. The little tyke shrieked, clearly elated when Din finally snatched him up. He crouched down and locked the kid between his thighs, keeping him still.

“Don’t eat that,” Din scolded, pulling out a grease cloth from his belt and wiping the kid’s hands. If the cloth left black oil stains on the child’s palms, Din pretended not to notice.

“Ah?” The child looked up at him and Din stilled. _You’ve got to be kidding—_

“How did you get that on your face?” Din breathed, now beginning to wipe blue gunk from the kid’s nose and mouth. _This was ridiculous._

The child just giggled and swung his feet, far too pleased for his own good. Shaking his head, Din released the kid, pocketed the cloth, and stepped back.

“Go on, but no more chasing—” The kid took off, wobbling after another butterfly. Din sighed and leaned back against the tree, too tired to care.

 _He needed to heal._ Though the pain relievers worked well, the concussion still left him feeling drained and shaky most of the time. It was odd feeling this exhausted. Several times, fear conjured up scenarios in his head where a hunter or some Imp found them. Every time, Din pushed the thoughts away by revisiting his mental checklist. _Two exits, approximately six feet high. Upper attic hatchet, takes six minutes to reach it from the front entrance (probably would take twice as long for the old women). Eight windows._ Yet, somehow, the process left him feeling agitated rather than eased. Running was never his first option.

Thankfully, the women had returned his weapons, but even Din knew his reaction time would be slower. That meant his accuracy would also be unreliable, which meant Din would surely get he and the kid killed. He didn’t doubt that Maisy could hold her own in a fight, but for how long? Din wasn’t about to put the women’s lives at stake too. He hadn’t told them about the kid’s bounty and wasn’t planning on it either. The less they knew the better. He just needed to get his ship and go before anyone—

“It’s peaceful, isn’t it?”

Din whipped out his blaster, aiming. Almost instantly, he cursed himself. Aea yelped and stumbled backward, tripping over her skirts. Din caught her arm just before she fell.

She pressed a shaky hand to her chest, struggling to catch her breath. “Thank…thank you.”

Aea slipped her arm from his grasp and averted her eyes. _Damn._

“I didn’t realize it was you,” Din said.

“It’s okay,” she deflected, but Din noticed the tremors in her hands as she wrapped the shawl around her tighter. “It was mine…my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

She offered him a weak smile, but Din knew it was truly his fault. He’d been too lost in his own thoughts. Rarely did he lose focus or space out. He should have been able to detect her footsteps, notice her approach. Yet, the fact that Aea was able to sneak up to him without his notice spoke volumes. They’d been on Dantooine almost a week and Din was adjusting. He was too comfortable, too settled.

“You…I notice you reach for that gun a lot,” Aea said softly, just as Din put it away. The wind whipped through her hair, obscuring her face with salt-and-pepper curls.

Din leaned his head back against the tree. “Weapons are a part of my religion.”

She nodded, as if she understood, but Din knew she didn’t. Aea nodded in acceptance, not understanding. It’d taken Din a few days to figure that out, but when he did, he noticed the mannerism everywhere. On any particular day, Aea could nod at a prejudicial comment from Maisy, a deflection from Elgie or, in this case, Din’s weapons. It seemed as though it was her way of saying, _I accept you, but I don’t like your behavior._ Somehow, when directed at him, Din felt properly chastised.

“Yesterday, that language you spoke…is that also a part of your religion?” She asked.

“Culture,” Din corrected. “My people speak…spoke Mando’a.”

Aea was quiet for a moment.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then asked, “Your armor…Your people forge that material, yes?”

He nodded. “Beskar.”

“Beskar,” she breathed out, testing the word on her lips. Staring out into the grasslands, Aea murmured, “That’s what it sounds like…your language, that is. It’s like that.”

Din felt something within him warm, somehow pleased. “Yes, it does.”

Mando’a wasn’t exactly the most beautiful language. As a boy, he’d thought the language sounded harsh, like every statement was an insult (which, usually, it was). As an adult, he understood now that Mando’a was a reflective tongue. It searched for character and called out cowardice. The language embodied what it meant to be a Mandalorian — indomitable, strong, truthful, present, resolute.

“And your boy seems to love it,” she acknowledged, nodding towards the child. “You seem to be the center of his world. Children need that — a center, some star in the galaxy they can draw energy from.”

Din glanced at the kid. A smile crept on his lips as he watched the child oogle a triosect that balanced on a reed.

“You seem to know a great deal about kids,” Din said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Din saw Aea clutch at her shawl and go quiet. She fingered the red frays at the end, almost thoughtful.

Minutes passed before she spoke again. “I had…my husband and I had a son once, but he’s gone now. Husband, too. M’ the only one of my sisters to leave home, venture out, form a new family.” A smile graced Aea’s lips for a moment, and then, it fell. “But life…life changes things, I guess.”

She looked pained, so Din kept quiet, unwilling to trespass on her history.

“We kept many of Onii’s things, stored them away. It’s been so long since then, but I just can’t bear to get rid of them,” Aea confessed, drawing the shawl around her tighter. Din made a mental note — _Onii,_ her son. “I’m glad your little one can make use of them.”

Din swallowed, now watching the child. The kid swiped at another butterfly, hobbling after it. Suddenly, he tripped over something and toppled into the tall grass. The kid’s head poked up from the reeds and his face crumpled. _Shit._

Din rushed forward just as the kid released a wail.

“You’re fine,” he soothed. Standing the kid on his feet, Din crouched and brushed the dirt off the child’s jumpsuit. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

The kid whimpered and clutched at Din’s arms, looking miserable.

Din sighed. “I told you that was a bad idea.”

The child hiccuped and started crying again. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he reached for Din.

“Poor thing,” Aea murmured behind him as Din picked up the kid and laid him against his shoulder.

The kid sniveled and dug his face into Din’s shoulder blade. Cooing, Aea crowded up beside Din.

“You’ll be alright, little one,” she soothed light-heartedly, tucking the kid’s collar under his chin. The child whimpered, cries softening. “It’s hard when your papa tells you no, isn’t it?”

The kid sniffled, but thankfully didn’t start crying again. A butterfly flit around Din’s helmet, fluttering against his viewfinder and away. The kid shifted in his arms, moving, _grabbing._ Beneath his helmet, Din could have snorted. _Stubborn little rascal._

Beside him, Din heard Aea gasp. “Oh shoot — Maisy! Maisy needs to see you about your ship! I knew I was forgetting something! Oh, she’s really going to chew me out this time.”

“What about my ship?” He asked, shifting the child in his arms. The kid cooed and tucked his face under Din’s helmet.

Aea fingered the frays on her shawl. “I… _well_ , I think it had something to do with your exhaust valves.”

 _Something to do with his exhaust valves?_ Din had seen Aea examine the Crest; she worked with a vigor and insight that surprised even him, so her wording was…odd, to put it nicely. Aea might be insanely timid, but she was no idiot. 

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong with them?”

“I…I really think you should wait for Maisy to tell you,” Aea stammered, not looking at him. “S-She’s really apt with these things and knows far more—”

“Aea,” he warned.

Maybe it was the fact that Din had actually said her name out loud. Or maybe it was because the old woman was actually nervous around him, but whatever the reason, Aea cracked like an egg.

“A leak! There’s a leak in your right engine — Your fuel isn’t compressing because your exhaust valves haven’t been sealing properly and now there’s a Class-7 leak. We’ve tried to repair them, but Maisy…Maisy thinks we’ll need to replace the valves, which will set you back another week.”

She rushed the last part out like Din had a gun trained on her. He didn’t, but Din definitely wanted to shoot something.

“We don’t have a week,” he finally said after a while.

Aea chewed on her lips. “I…I know, and I tried to tell her, but—”

“But your ship is a piece of shit, Mando.”

Maisy sauntered up to them, tool belt slung around her waist, and shot Din a look that dared him to say otherwise.

She turned to Aea. “And where have you been?”

Aea started and flushed. “I, well, I forgot…”

“You _forgot_?” Maisy threw back dubiously. “I just told you to grab him thirty minutes ago.”

“W-Well, I’m not as young as I once was.”

“You’ve still got your teeth. You’re not _that_ old,” Maisy groused.

Aea pulled her shawl around her and _humphed,_ Maisy glared, and Din didn’t have the patience for another argument between either of them.

“Let me see it,” he said.

“The valves are shot, Mando,” Maisy replied, swiping a hand against her forehead. “We’d be lucky to even salvage one.”

“I want to see it,” Din repeated.

Maisy stared at him for a while, and then sighed. “Fine, _fine_.” She nodded her head towards the cottage. “The wreck’s this way.”

Shifting the kid into his arm, Din trailed after the old woman, while Aea followed at the rear. The wind picked up, whipping his cape around his legs and against the reeds. He glanced up, noting the two moons now parallel in the sky. They’d have another two hours of daylight, which would be more than enough time for Din to assess his ship.

Maisy circled around the stone cottage and led them toward, what Elgie affectionately called, _The Shit Pit._ The name, much to Din’s surprise when he approached, fit. Panel sidings and routers from the ship lay strewn across the cleared yard. The Crest, herself, had created a funnel at the landing that did, in fact, resemble a pit. Caged in by piles of mud, turned over topsoil, and heaps of rotting turnips, the Crest looked a right mess.

Maisy grabbed a barrel of loose parts from the side of the cottage and wheeled around to the right engine. She opened the manual hatchet and stamped in the release code. With a squeal and a gust of smoke, the door to the engine unlocked.

Din stepped forward to examine it when, on second thought, he turned and held out the kid to Aea. “Would you watch the child?”

Aea started, taken aback. She flushed, nodded, and reached for the kid. Din handed him off and watched as Aea tucked the kid into her arms.

The child glanced at Din and struggled against the older woman, beginning to fuss.

Din stepped towards him. “You will stay with her until I’m finished.”

The child’s ears drooped as tears began to fill his eyes. _Of course, this was happening again._

“I’ll only be outside,” he attempted to soothe, but by this point, Din should have remembered that words helped little.

The kid held out his hands and Din shook his head. “No, I can’t take you this time.”

The child hiccuped and turned his face into Aea’s chest, silently weeping.

Aea looked up at him, concerned. “May…Maybe you should take him?”

Din shook his head. He couldn’t hold the kid while he assessed the ship, neither could the child roam around. It was too dangerous around the crash site. _But what could he do…?_

He didn’t hear the tinkering behind him, which meant Maisy was watching them now. _Great._ In times like these, Din wished he knew what the hell he was doing. Often, he reached back into his childhood, trying to grab onto some inspiration from his _buir._ Though kind, his _buir_ wasn’t overly affectionate, neither did he speak much. He provided, cared for Din, accepted him as his own, but affection was few and far between. Excessive and physical acts of love weren’t common among Mandalorians (which made it all the more cherished). The rare times his _buir_ did show him affection, he’d—

Din stilled, a possibility forming. _Well, that was an idea._

Hesitating, he grabbed the back of the kid’s head and pressed their foreheads together. Slowly, the kid’s cries settled into soft coos. The child reached up and held on to the sides of Din’s helmet.

“I’ll come for you when I’m finished,” Din murmured after a moment, stepping back. The kid whimpered, but otherwise, leaned back into the woman’s hold.

Din looked at Aea, purposely ignoring the stunned expression on her face. “I’ll be in soon.”

Cheeks flushed, she nodded and moved to leave.

“Ah,” the kid babbled, causing Aea to stop. Big eyes peeked over her elbow, staring back at Din sadly.

“Go on,” Din encouraged softly. “You’ll be okay, _ad’ika._ ”

The child stared at him for a while and then disappeared behind Aea’s arm again. Quietly, the two of them walked around the cottage.

Only when they’d finally disappeared out of sight did Din release an exhale, relieved. _At least it’d worked…_ He turned, only to find Maisy gaping at him with an expression even Din couldn’t read. Slipping past her, he sidled up to the engine and peered inside. _Damn._ The valves were shot. Thankfully, there were other parts that could be salvaged. He turned to grab a set of pliers. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Maisy shake her head and then snag an abandoned piston off the work-bench, re-aligning it with a connecting rod.

Other than the clanking from the re-alignment, no one made a sound. Din was thankful for it; he preferred to work in silence.

Several minutes passed before Maisy finally broke that silence, “I thought you said the child had no name.”

Din yanked out one of the piston rings. “He doesn’t.”

“Then, what’s with that _adawon_ name-thing you say?”

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” he corrected, polishing a new ring with a cloth. “And it’s a title, not a name.”

The clanking stopped. “The way you say it?” She sucked her teeth. “I might be old, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I highly doubt it’s _just_ a title.”

Din replaced the piston ring and said nothing. Somewhere, behind him, Maisy muttered something under her breath.

“What?” Din asked, inclining his head toward her.

“I said,” Maisy reiterated. “What does it mean?”

He turned back to crank one of the cylinders. “Child…kid...little one.” He wiped his hands and added for no particular reason, “For some, it can mean more."

“Let me guess,” Maisy said, amusement in her voice. “Your tone determines the meaning.”

The cylinder squealed, almost giving under his hands. Unwittingly, Din had cranked it too hard.

Maisy burst out laughing.

“Oh gosh, Mando! Earlier, I’d thought you were one of those stone-cold killers, but now I get it,” she said and Din could hear the smirk on her lips. “Deep, _deep_ down inside, you’re really quite soft, aren’t you?”

Din grimaced and loosened the crank. “Can you pass me the adjuster?”

Maisy cackled, almost roaring, but still tossed the tool his way.

Without looking at her, he squeezed the adjuster in between the coolant shafts and flicked on his headlight. _So, it was worse than he’d thought..._

“So,” Maisy appeared beside him, holding up a compression tester. “When did it start?”

Din began screwing the gauge to the engine. “When did what start?”

“The issues with your boy.” Din gave her a look and she rolled her eyes, clarifying, “The…damn, what do they call it? Separation stress.”

Din stopped screwing. “What?”

“Y’know,” Maisy replied, shoving him aside and continuing to screw. “The fussiness, the cries and hollers when you leave, the clinginess. Separation stress.”

Din just stared at her.

“Men,” she huffed, giving him a look then stilling. "You are a man, ain't you? Jus' figured with your voice an' all...it'd make you a pretty ugly woman."

"Can you get to the point?"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Mandy. It was a compliment," she retorted, peering into the engine. “Like I said: I don’t know what happened, but your youngin’ doesn’t want to be separated from you. _Won’t be_ separated from you, and clearly, he’ll raise all kinds of hell to make damn sure you know that.”

Din opened his mouth, then closed it, lost as to what to say.

“He won’t stop crying,” was what finally came out.

“Sure he won’t! He— _damn you,_ ” Maisy clocked the tester unit with her fist and the suction roared on. She shouted at him over the noise, “That baby adores you! I mean — I don’t see why, but to each his own!”

The unit flashed red and Maisy flicked it off, swearing. “See? Your compression is shot.”

Din found he wasn’t so focused on that. “I don’t understand.”

“Whattdo mean you don’t understand?” Maisy threw back. “Look at the meter—”

“Not the compression,” Din clarified.

Her eyes softened and she sighed. “Listen Mando, all I know is I see the same stuff in your kid that I saw in Aea’s youngin’.”

Maisy moved to unscrew the gauge, but Din covered the socket, stopping her.

She held up her hands. “Alright, alright.”

Maisy huffed and leaned against the ship. “Babies are tricky things. I don’t even get them, but I do know one thing: at that age, they can’t say much, can’t tell you how they feel, can’t do anything really. They just want your attention. That’s how Aea’s babe was…didn’t understand that she had responsibilities either. All they think is, ‘Why do you have to work?’ ‘Why do you have to go?’ But they can’t say that, so they just cry. They cry and they cry and they cry. I guess it’s their way of communicating, trying to get you to listen, trying to make you get it.”

Din swallowed and struggled to find the words. “So, what do I…how do I stop him?”

“Stop him?” Maisy scoffed and folded her arms. “ _Think_ , tin can. You can’t stop him from loving you.”

Din jerked, blinking. _Love…Loving him?_ Was that what the crying was all about? Din couldn’t fathom it. Of course, he’d realized that the kid had taken a liking to him and maybe if Din were brave enough he’d admit to noticing a fondness in the kid’s eyes, but love? Truthfully, he didn’t want to sit with that thought. He knew love. It looked like his parents, like those dream-memories of being tucked in. It even looked like his last memory with them, of hugging them, of being lowered into a storage bunker. Yes, Din knew love, but he also knew loss and both experiences were too painful to bear.

“Now, if you want to get the little one to stop fussing, that’s a different matter entirely,” Maisy narrowed her eyes at him. “The magic word: security.”

“Security?”

“Oh yeah. I remember Aea used to tuck that boy in every night and read him the same —and I mean _the same—_ story.” Maisy pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing the smoke into the cool air. “I swear if I hear the words ‘The three little lothies…’ I might just lose my shit. But the kid loved it and settled down a little while after.”

“From reading a story?” Din doubted.

Maisy rolled her eyes. “From consistency. It has nothing to do with the stupid book; it was the same, constant routine of care. The little rascal came to expect the routine, made ‘im feel secure, eased him. ”

 _So, he needed to create a routine with the kid… something the child could depend on._ But a routine meant stability or, at least, staying stationary for more than an hour. Was it even possible with the life they led? He didn’t want to have to choose, but the choice was always there — protecting the kid or nurturing him.

“We can’t stay here,” Din said, making his choice.

Maisy yanked the cigarette out from her lips. “How the hell did we get back on this subject again? I already told you, Mando, your ship—”

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Din interrupted. “I’ll stay up through the night and work if I have to, but we can’t wait a week.”

Maisy’s eyes narrowed as she scanned him, as if looking for something.

“What trouble are you running from?” She held up a hand before Din could reply. “You’ve got it written all over you.”

Din angled around her and began unscrewing the gauge. “It’s none of your concern.”

Maisy made a noise of protest, but still said, “Fine. I don’t wanna know anyway.”

She stomped back to the work-bench and Din breathed a sigh of relief. It was better to keep her out of it. He and the kid would be out of their hair soon enough.

At least, Din hoped so.

~*~

The sky had darkened, fading from olive to blue by the time Din ditched the pit, leaving Maisy to tinker with the engine. A sweet scent greeted him when he stepped into the cottage. Wax candles flickered in the windows, washing the room in a soft glow. Din didn’t see anyone in the kitchen, neither did he hear any voices.

He slipped around the counter, eying the boiling pot on the stove, and passed the sitting room. A light flickered on and Elgie’s face appeared behind a dispatch journal. “So, you’re all finished, are you?”

“For now,” Din replied.

Elgie folded the dispatch onto her lap. “If you’re looking for Aea and the lad, they were upstairs — last I saw them.”

Din nodded and headed up the stairs. He hit the landing, eying the light spilling from one of the lone rooms. The door was slightly ajar, and he heard Aea’s voice muffled from the inside. Slowly, Din pushed the door open.

“There, now that’s got to be more comfortable, hm?”

Din heard the kid babble back in response. Aea’s back faced him as she leaned against a tiny bed, skewing the checkered quilt. Her arms moved, something brown and fluffy in her hands.

He stepped forward and the floor board squeaked. Aea whirled around, startled.

She exhaled upon seeing him. “O-Oh, it’s you.”

Murmuring something soft, she picked up the child and turned back to him, smiling nervously. “I hope this isn’t too much. I noticed he only had that jumper and…well, we had a few extra things.”

And — _Oh._ The kid gurgled around a pacifier, visibly brightening when he saw Din. Fluffy clothed paws wiggled for him, and Din felt his mouth fall open. _He looked like a pipa bear._

“Uh.” The child strained against the woman, hand extended towards Din.

“Alright, go on, little one.” Aea encouraged tenderly, setting him on the floor and nudging him forward. “Go see your papa.”

Suckling hard on the pacifier, the kid waddled towards him. He stumbled and caught Din’s pant leg, steadying himself.

Din smirked and pulled the child into his arms. The kid definitely looked more comfortable, snuggling into his armpit. Despite himself, Din felt a smile on his lips.

“I noticed he has his teeth, but they don’t seem to be in fully. Poor thing’s still teething,” Aea murmured. “I was able to snag that old soother from Onii’s things. After that, the little one just settled.”

As if to prove it, the pacifier pulsated against Din’s arm, contented sucking sounds filling the air. The kid gazed up at him, eyes glassy and dazed and _clearly about to fall asleep._

Din looked up at her. “Thank you.”

Aea ducked her head, but Din still noticed the flush on her face. She grabbed the kid’s old one-piece from the bed and folded it over her arm.

“I…well, I didn’t know when you’d be in, so I went ahead and fed him some fish broth.” Aea folded and re-folded the kid’s outfit, not looking at Din. “I added some fern potatoes and rankweed, which should fill him up. I would have given him a bath too, but I didn’t want to presume, so I just washed him up a little. I…I hope that was alright? I-I didn’t want the babe to be—”

“It’s fine,” Din interrupted, voice soft. “You’ve been more than kind.”

Aea paused mid-fold and a small smile graced her lips. She nodded, visibly more at ease than before, and angled around him.

She stopped at the door. “I left a bowl for you in your room too, but…it must be cold by now. I could warm it up, if you’d like?”

“I should be fine,” Din declined.

Aea nodded and slipped out the room. The steps gave, creaking, as she hobbled down the stairs.

Din glanced back at the child. Soft snores rumbled against his arm. _The kid was out cold._ Almost abruptly, the child whined in his sleep, suckled hard on the pacifier for a few seconds, and went still again.

Smiling, Din flicked the light off in the room and walked to his bedroom down the hall. True to Aea’s words, when he stepped inside, a large bowl of the broth greeted him on a tray, alongside a chunk of bread and a white jug.

Din closed the door and sat on the bed, settling the kid down beside him. The child shuddered on the quilt and released a high-pitched squeal, turning over. _The old woman must have really worn him out._ For a moment, Din considered waking the kid up. Several times, he’d made the mistake of letting the child nap throughout the day and Din _definitely_ did not want to go through another sleepless night again. He needed to wake the child up now or else the kid would be off-the-walls later.

A soft chirping sound warbled against the pillows, and Din caught himself smiling. _Go figure. The womp rat snores._

Maybe he could let the kid sleep for just a little while longer — at least until Din had finished eating. Slowly, he slipped his fingers under the side of the helmet and hit the release latch. The helmet squealed as Din lifted it and set the armor on the bed.

Never had he felt so eager to remove it. The presence of the concussion often made the helmet feel heavier than it actually was. Several times, the old ladies advised him to remove it, but Din always declined. It didn’t matter how the head injury impacted him, he wouldn’t break the Creed. But, to take the helmet off in the privacy of his quarters…? Now that was a different matter entirely.

Din swiped a hand across his face, grimacing at the hair prickling under his fingertips. _He needed to shave again._ He made a mental note to save the grooming for in the morning. _But for now, food._

Pulling the tray towards him, Din ripped the hunk of bread into small pieces and dropped them into the broth. He set the bowl on his lap and began eating. The broth was lukewarm, but Din didn’t mind it. At this point, anything was better than the junk he ate. Besides, he’d learned long ago not to be picky with his food. A meal was a meal.

When only a thin pool of the broth remained, he tossed the spoon onto the tray and lifted the bowl to his lips, swallowing. Some of the broth seeped out, spilling down the sides of his cheeks. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and set the bowl on the tray.

Beside him, the kid released another high-pitched snore. Din smirked and placed a hand on the child’s stomach and the kid’s eyelids fluttered, beginning to open.

“Time to wake up.”

The kid yawned, abandoning the pacifier onto the quilt. He sat up and fisted his eyes, eyelids only now opening. Din made to grab him when the child looked at him and suddenly whimpered. He stumbled behind one of the pillows.

Din started. “What…what are you doing?”

The kid peeked shyly out from the pillow.

“Kid?”

The child whined and disappeared behind the pillow, only the tip of an ear visible.

 _What the hell?_ The kid looked frightened and Din felt just as scared. What was with the sudden change? Why was the kid acting so strange—?

The kid peered out again, dark eyes scanning him, and the truth hit Din square between the eyes.

“ _Ad’ika,_ ” Din murmured, causing the child to peek out again.“It’s me.”

The kid’s eyes widened and he stepped out from behind the pillow, looking considerably less frightened. Din felt something within him constrict. _The kid must’ve forgotten what he looked like._ He held out his hands and the kid fell into his arms.

The child steadied his hands on Din’s thigh and climbed over, plopping himself down onto Din’s lap. Din drew him against his chest and the kid pressed a three-fingered hand to his mouth.

“Am I that forgettable?” Din joked weakly, still feeling a sadness pull at his heart.

The kid swung his legs back and forth, cooing happily.

Din scoffed. “I guess so.”

Suddenly, a soft knock rapt against the door.

Din tossed the child on his shoulder and slipped his helmet back on, earning a disgruntled whine from the kid. The child strained against him, trying to push the edge of his helmet up.

“I’ll take it back off in a minute,” Din murmured to him. The kid made the most displeased sound, but didn’t move to push his helmet off again.

Din cleared his throat. “Come in.”

Aea’s head poked through the crack and she offered him a sheepish smile. “Sorry to disturb you. I just forgot to give you these.”

She slipped through the opening, balancing a small plate in one hand and a bottle in another. Din watched as she set both on the bedside table.

“Elgie baked some loop pastries earlier that I meant to give you. You don’t have to eat them if you don’t like them! They’re definitely an acquired taste,” she said, looking nervously at the plate. “And I made up another bottle for the little one, in case he gets hungry.”

Din glanced at the table, taking in the yellow sponge cakes, set in an orderly row, and the small, cloth bottle.

“Thank you,” Din found himself saying again. “This is…extremely generous.”

Aea flushed. “Well, it’s the least we can do after, y’know…”

Without waiting for a response, she removed the tray from the bed’s edge and slipped out the room again.

Din deposited the kid onto the bed and locked the door behind her. When he turned back around, the kid was standing on the quilt, already reaching up for him.

“Alright, alright.” Din slipped his hands under the child’s armpits, but the kid whined and moved away.

Again, the kid reached up. Din tried to hold him, but _again_ he angled away. _What was going on now?_ Din frowned and crouched down, making himself eye-level with the child.

“Tell me what you want,” Din said softly.

The kid pushed against his helmet, keening.

And — Oh. _Oh. So, that’s what this was about?_

“You don’t like when I put this on, huh?”

The child whined and tried to pull his helmet off again.

“Fine, fine,” Din chuckled, hitting the release latch and tossing the beskar onto the bed. “Happy now?”

As a response, the kid chirped, obviously pleased, and wrapped his arms around Din’s head. _Hugging his face._ His claws gripped Din’s hair.

Din felt the stress roll out of his body, now smiling. “Maybe I’m not so bad to look at after all, huh, you little womp rat?”

The kid babbled against his cheekbone, dribbling spit on Din’s face. Shaking his head, Din wiped his cheek and tucked the child into the crook of his arm.

The kid cooed and stared up at him, ogling Din’s face with a look of pure joy. Without really trying to, Din found himself reaching for Maisy’s words, turning them over in his mind. _That baby adores you._ At times like these, he could see the adoration in the child’s eyes. It both amazed and frightened him. Usually, Din received looks of fear, wonder, disgust, envy, fascination. But the way the kid stared at him…? He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. _Like Din was the world._

“I’m…I’m sure you’re hungry by now,” Din struggled to say against the lump in his throat.

The kid squealed and reached for his mouth again. Flushing, Din batted the hand away and grabbed the cloth bottle from the side table. He dropped into the rocking chair by the fireplace.

“Here,” he whispered, pressing the nipple against the child’s mouth.

The kid latched on hungrily and wrapped his hands around the cloth. Warm milk pooled around the kid’s mouth, trailing down his cheeks. Din smiled and wiped up the excess milk with his finger.

A sigh escaped from Din’s lips as the kid seized his finger. It sounded far more contented than he’d meant for it to be. He was happy, Din knew that much. Even though their sudden stationary lifestyle irritated him, Din still couldn’t deny that he enjoyed moments like this with the kid. They were warm, so peaceful and calm that Din often wondered if it was okay to feel this way? To like the stillness, even if only for a moment? He knew next to nothing about raising a child. Yes, the Covert had raised him to value foundlings, but Din realized he didn’t know how to care for one. Even holding the kid like this deviated from the upbringing of his own buir, and Din often wondered if this was the right way? What did it mean to be a father? Din couldn’t say he knew yet.

A sudden gurgle drew him back and Din peered down, only to find the kid already gazing at him. His eyes were soft and dazed as he suckled on the bottle lazily. It was hard to imagine that someone as small as the kid could move things with his mind, could almost choke the life out of Cara.

“The Covert would have been enamored with you,” Din muttered, dragging his thumb across the kid’s hand. A pang of grief stabbed at his heart and Din breathed out shakily. One day, he’d tell the kid about their sacrifice. _They died so he could live._

Din felt a hand on his chin. The kid stared up at him, eyes sad and searching.

Din smiled weakly. “I’m okay.”

 _But was he really?_ Even Din doubted himself. Custom would have permitted him time to gather the spare armor of the fallen, scatter the ashes of his comrades, and honor their deaths with days of silence. _A sign of mourning._ But danger had reared its head again, and there was no time to grieve the dead. The Armorer also had refused to let him stay behind. Still, Din refused to let their deaths be for nothing. His brothers and sisters had died as warriors, noble deaths, but Din was still determined to make them live on.

 _How though?_ He couldn’t even visit their graves, not now with hunters and Imps tracking them.

A loud thump caused Din to jolt, the noise wrenching him out of his thoughts. The kid wriggled in his arms, leaning over his shoulder and clearly reaching for something. Din scanned the floor and noticed the bottle now rolling across the ground, dribbling spots of milk on the wood.

He sighed and reached for the bottle as it stopped at a woven basket. Din froze, eyes catching the contents clustered inside.

A variety of thin books were stacked haphazardly in the basket. On the top, a red book stared back at him, the title blocked in fuzzy orange letters. _The Three Little Lothies._

The child cooed, peering over Din’s arm to get a look. _Aea must have left the books for him to read to the kid earlier._ Despite himself, Din picked up the red book and examined the back. Maisy had said that Aea used to read her child this story. Judging by the description on the back, the tale seemed tame, innocent, almost playful. Din didn’t know any stories like that, had never been told any. The closest thing to a tale he’d grown up with were the histographies of Mandalorian warriors or the history of Mandalore.

An idea took root in his mind. _But would they even count as stories?_

“This might bore you to death,” Din said to the kid, somehow winning a pleased gurgle from the child in response. “But you should know… You should _know._ ”

And so, despite his misgivings, Din began telling his first story—about the Mandalorian exile on Concordia, the training sets he learned as a kid, his aversion to _shig,_ the Covert— everything he knew. He recounted ~~his~~ _their_ history because he didn’t want to forget; he didn’t want the kid not knowing who had rescued them. He didn’t want the kid growing up and not being tethered to somebody or something. Though impossible, Din hoped the kid would remember him, would remember the Mandalorians.

For a second, Din thought that maybe, just this once, he could leave his own imprint somewhere, even if only on the kid’s heart.

~*~

But of course, even peace had an expiration date.

They were sitting at the kitchen table, the women finishing off a pot of rolled meal and the child nibbling on a date, when Din saw something move across the window.

Maisy spooned more meal into her bowl. “And that’s when I said ‘who do you think you—”

Din shushed her, glancing at the window.

“Hey!” She retorted, standing up from her chair. “I wasn’t finish—”

Din pointed towards the window. A shadow moved across the ledge. Maisy’s mouth dropped open just as a black barrel reflected against the glass.

“Get down!”

Bullets shattered the kitchen windows, forcing Din and the women to the ground. Aea screamed as glass exploded onto the floor, covering them. Bullets careened through the kitchen, destroying the breakfast pots. Then, suddenly, the shooting stopped. _They were reloading._

_This could buy them some time._

Din handed Aea the child. “Take him.”

Whipping out his blaster, he moved to stand when a hand seized his arm.

“You…You can’t,” Aea pleaded with him, curls sticking to her forehead. “You’re not well enough.”

Din eyed the window. _It wouldn’t be long before they started shooting again._ “I’ll be fine. Take the kid and go to the attic.”

Aea started to protest, but Maisy snatched her by the arm and shoved her towards the stairs. “Go!”

She hustled Elgie along as well, guiding her out from under the table. The child whimpered, frightened eyes fixed on Din, as he reached for him.

Din grabbed the back of his head and pressed their foreheads together. He fired up his blaster and glanced at Aea. “Keep him safe.”

She gave him a curt nod and hurried after Elgie. When both women started hobbling up the steps, Maisy whipped around to look at him, face set like flint.

“If you turn up dead, I’ll never forgive you,” she threatened, but there was a look both fearful and tender in her eyes.

Din felt something in him soften. “No one’s going to die today.”

“You’ve got a youngin’ to take care of,” she ignored him, almost pleading. “You can’t die, you hear me? I won’t allow it.”

A smile pulled at Din’s lips. “I won’t. Now, go.”

Warning shots punctured the sky causing both of them to flinch.

“The asset is mine and soon, so will your head.” The voice was gruff, almost inhuman-sounding and it was close.

He turned to Maisy. “Go!”

Giving him one last fearful look, Maisy staggered through the kitchen and stumbled up the stairs. The door blasted open just as she hit the landing, throwing Din back against the wall. His blaster slipped out of his hands, clattering a few feet away from him.

“Ah, the Mandalorian.” Din groaned, lights dancing in his eyes, as he was lifted off the ground. The dust cleared and a large snout appeared — then small yellow eyes. Reptilian eyes. _Shit._

“Hm.” The Chistori scanned him and scoffed. “Disappointing.”

Din slid his knife from his thigh and stabbed it into the creature’s forearm, immediately pulling it out. The Chistori howled and Din dropped to the ground.

The hunter swung his rifle around just as Din pocketed the knife and slid behind the counter. His breath came out in harsh pants. _He needed to get the gun away from the creature and fast._ The weapon fired up, charged, and Din whipped around the side, shooting his tether. The Chistori roared as the cord pierced through his thigh. Din yanked the cord towards him.

The creature howled and snagged a lone chair, flinging it at him. Din pivoted and the chair exploded against the wall, knocking off a few portraits. He ripped the cord out of the creature’s thigh and green blood spurted onto the floor.

Din snatched his blaster off the ground and fired. The flares ricocheted off the hunter’s scales, not even leaving a mark. _Dammit._

The Chistori cackled and snapped his own weapon in half. The sidings of the gun dropped off and suddenly, the weapon began to liquify, melting and solidifying into black globs. Before Din could even wonder what they were, the Chistori flung them at him.

Din ducked, dodging the projectiles, and spun on his knee, spewing fire at the hunter. The Chistori smashed the black mass together and expanded it, swallowing the flames. The hunter shot another glob at him and it crashed into the fridge, sizzling, and burning a hole through the door.

 _Shit. The stuff was corrosive too._ He didn’t like this. There was too much space between them, giving dinosaur-head the advantage. Din needed to get closer. But how the hell would he—

Din jolted as a glob landed on his arm. He cried out, stumbling to the ground, as the black material ate away at his underarmor and seared his skin. A bloodcurdling roar reverberated in his ears and it took him a second to realize it wasn’t the Chistori this time. Din writhed on the ground as the glob burned through his muscle, revealing something white. _Shit. His bone._

“The asset, Mando,” the creature growled, circulating the globs and limping towards him. “Where is it?”

Din fired the whistling birds. They stabbed through the Chistori’s chest, wounding, but not yet killing.

“Y-You—” The creature staggered, claw fisting the chest wound. He hurled another blob. It landed on Din’s shoulder pad, not burning through the beskar, but sizzling enough that Din felt the heat.

The tension and adrenaline were beginning to roll out of his body and in its wake, the pain rushed back in. Din choked, turning in on himself.

“And they call you warriors of the galaxy…What a waste,” The Chistori derided, snatching him by the neck and dangling his body off the floor. “I’ll drag your body through the streets.”

Lights flashed in Din’s eyes as his breath came out in pants. He writhed against the creature’s hand, fighting him, but the hunter’s grip only tightened. _He couldn’t breathe._

“Guess you’re not so tough after a—”

The Chistori cut off with a choke. His grip loosened and Din dropped to the ground. Din wheezed and turned over onto his side, struggling for air.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the creature’s webbed feet kicking, wiggling in midair and Din rolled his head to the side. His breath caught in his throat.

 _The kid. H-How the hell did he…?_ The child stood on his left, eyes narrowed into slits. His hand was extended towards to the hunter, and it was slowly beginning to close into a fist. The Chistori squealed, eyes almost bulging out of his skull, as he clutched at his throat.

At that moment, footsteps thumped down the stairs and Din heard, more than saw, the ladies stumble into the area.

“Oh my god.” Someone gasped and Din struggled to sit up. _He had to stop…had to stop—_

“N…No,” he managed out, hand extended towards the kid.

The child glanced at him and his narrowed eyes widened, surprised. Instantly, the hunter fell to the floor.

“I’m okay,” Din whispered as the child collapsed against him, whimpering into his neck. _He was safe. The kid was okay._ Din could have breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, someone screamed and Din glanced up just in time to see the Chistori stumble to his feet. The black globs coagulated and hurled back into his hands. Roaring, the hunter formed a blob.

Din whipped out his knife and flung it at the wound in the hunter’s chest. The Chistori stumbled back, groaning, and collapsed onto the floor. Green blood pooled around him. _Dead._

Din’s head fell back against the floor, splitting and almost immediately, his vision started to fade.

Feet rushed towards him and Din felt shaky hands on his body.

“Oh stars, Maisy, look at his arm!”

Someone swore, the kid wailed and Din, too weak to console him, passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psych Corner With Din
> 
> Let’s take a minute to sip on some sweet tea and gush about Din’s character and psychology, especially concerning the Child. 
> 
> Din believes he has to choose between protecting the Child and nurturing him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize yet that, a part of being a parent, is learning how to protect, nurture, and let go. He’s more secure in his bounty hunting skills, so he chooses protecting the Child over everything else. Unfortunately, as I’ve seen some of you mention, his means of ‘protection’ can also hurt the Child. He’s fighting to keep the kid safe but, as a result, he is not physically and emotionally present. Hence, the Child’s separation anxiety. But, let’s take that point a step further, it’s my belief that Din doesn’t know yet how to nurture, be vulnerable, and offer himself emotionally. His role as a bounty hunter is to stay unattached, to observe and speak only when he absolutely has to, to react first and process later (although he does think through fighting strategies well, but that’s also a bit reactionary), and to remain nameless, faceless and, in essence, an enigma. He isn’t to be known by anyone really, at least not in a way that could leave him vulnerable to danger. What I love about the presence of the Child is that the kid, unintentionally, forces Din to do something he can’t/shouldn’t/doesn’t do: attach himself. Interestingly, though the kid is experiencing separation anxiety, I’d argue that Din needs the attachment just as badly. In my opinion, he correlates love with loss (based on his parents). It’s not just his job that makes it hard for him to form long-term, secure relationships, I believe Din is also afraid of it. 
> 
> These are my random thoughts, but I want to hear what y’all think. What do you notice about Din’s character? Or about his relationship with the Child?


	4. The Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience and support. I keep expanding this story, so at this point, don't even look at how many chapters there are supposed to be. Also, I'm pretty sure each chapter is getting longer. As usual, I'll have a 'Psych Corner with Din' posted below with a few questions if you want to answer them.
> 
> Also, as a general tip, when I incorporate Mando'a into the text, I usually include the definition in the sentence somewhere (so y'all aren't confused).
> 
> Without further ado, here is chapter four.

When Din came to, he discovered he was still laying on the ground. The hardwood dug into his shoulder blades. Din groaned, feeling a twinge in his muscles. A _clinking_ sound chimed above him as the pull-chains from the ceiling fan whirled around. Was the air meant to cool him down? Or was it meant to air-out the stink from the Chistori’s carcass? Din didn’t know for sure, but he did know that one of the ladies had rolled him onto his back. Someone had also draped a blue blanket over him and had the nerve to tuck in the corners under his body.

Based on the crook in his neck, Din had clearly been out for a while or, at least, longer than he could tolerate. Despite himself, Din growled underneath his breath. _And he called himself a Mandalorian?_ Din could have scoffed. He hadn’t blacked out like this since he was a teen training under _Al’Verde_ Dral. Even in his youth, the episode had been embarrassing. Din had wanted to impress —somehow prove to the clan that they hadn’t made a mistake in adopting him— but at seventeen, he was awkward and still growing into himself. Suffice to say, Din fell on his ass… _badly._ That’s when the commander had drilled the code into him — _Honor is life, for with no honor one might as well be dead._ In other words, it was dishonorable to fight so poorly. He hadn’t just embarrassed himself; he’d shamed the clan. A Mandalorian was never an individual; they were always a part of a greater entity, a larger people. Thus, the dishonorable behavior of one dishonored all. Now, as an adult, _embarrassed_ didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling. Try, irritated. Try, agitated. Try, livid.

Grumbling, Din tried to cast the blanket off of him, but when he grabbed the fleece, a sharp pain shot up his arm.

“Dammit,” he winced, only now noticing his right arm encased in white dressings. _So, he was hurt too?_

 _Great. Just great._ He had one task: protect the child. But had Din done that? Not well. He’d slipped up, gone soft. He’d exposed he, the child, and the women to danger. None of this should have happened. He could have helped repair the ship; they could have left Dantooine by now, but what had Din been doing? Taking “walks.” Letting the kid catch butterflies. Eating cakes.

Din could have spat at his own feet. He was acting like some useless idiot, a fool, a _di’kut._

Disregarding the excruciating pain in his arm, Din kicked off the blanket and stumbled to his feet. He bit back a hiss, feeling the familiar weight bear down on his head. He nearly lost his balance, but then steadied himself on the messy counter. He steeled his emotions and took stock.

 _So, it was worse than he’d thought._ The dining table was obliterated, snapped in half, while a mix of dried meal and squashed dates were caked to the floor. Someone had tried to sweep up the glass, creating small mounds of the material, but even Din could tell they’d given up half-way. There were shards of glass everywhere, strewn under the broken table, into the kitchen and sitting room. An acrid scent burned Din’s nose, reaching even underneath his helmet. He didn’t need to glance at the fridge to know the black corrosive globs had produced that smell. There were splatters of green blood on the carpet (though the Chistori was nowhere to be seen), holes in the walls, burn marks on the countertops — the list went on.

Unwittingly, Din’s good hand clenched into a fist. The kitchen was destroyed. Din didn’t need to recount his growing list of problems and yet, they materialized in his mind just the same. The Crest was wrecked, his concussion still hadn’t healed, and a hunter had almost killed them (which meant more were sure to come). Even if the ship got fixed, how the hell would Din fly it? How would they leave now? He couldn’t even use his dominant hand.

“Oh my…Oh goodness, you’re up!”

Din didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

Aea half-shuffled half-hurried down the remaining steps. Setting his jaw, Din forced himself to lean up from the counter, ignoring the ache in his body. He refused to need the support; he didn’t deserve it.

Aea stopped on the steps and shouted behind her, “Maisy! Elgie! He…He’s awake! He’s—”

She hustled down the rest of the steps, abandoning her announcement, and looked about ready to gush with joy as she neared him. Her bright eyes flickered down to his arm.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” she chastened, still eying his bandaged arm as if its very presence could incapacitate him for life. “You must rest.”

Din side-stepped her attempt to grab his good arm. “I’m fine.”

“Surely you shouldn’t—” She cut off, seeing Maisy hustle down the steps with Elgie hobbling behind her. The child lay asleep in the former’s arms. “Oh Maisy, tell him!”

Maisy readjusted the child, stepped over a cracked jar, and scowled. “Tell ‘im what? That my house looks like some low-level scum hole?”

“I will fix it,” Din said.

Maisy set her hands on her hips. “In the state you’re in?”

Din locked his jaw. “I’ll fix it.”

“No, you won’t,” Aea shot down, eyes wide and worried. “You’ve got a concussion and a…a wounded arm. You’re in no condition to do anything!”

Elgie waved her cane at Aea. “Oh, hush. Let the Mando have his pride.”

“I don’t give a damn about pride,” Maisy threw back and turned to him with a steely look. “Now you listen to me, Mandy. You’re just gonna have to sit your ass down and let us clean up this mess. We can’t have any more problems.”

 _Meaning him_. Din clenched his teeth. “I’ll be out of your hair.”

Maisy started. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Out of our hair? You need to heal! Rest! We’ll help you,” Aea insisted, voice rising.

Din felt his temper rising with it. “I don’t need your help. I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I said I’m fine!” Din snapped, slamming his good hand on the counter.

It only took a second for him to regret it, as three things happened simultaneously. The kid, startled by the noise, woke up and started to cry, Aea’s eyes filled with tears, and Maisy, shooting him a look that could kill, called him a jackass.

Din swallowed thickly as Aea nodded. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she clutched at her shawl and averted her eyes. Beside her, Maisy rocked the kid, both shushing him and glowering at Din.

_Shit._

This was why he’d wanted to leave. This was why they needed to keep moving. He had brought nothing but trouble and unnecessary strife to this home. Din didn’t leave blood stains on lavender carpets. He didn’t shatter family portraits or damage kitchen chairs. He didn’t lose control of himself and make old ladies cry. He didn’t destroy turnip gardens. Din didn’t leave messes — until he did. Until now.

His feet started moving towards the door before he could even think about it — and Din hated himself for it. He, who refused to run from a fight, was walking away because he’d made some old lady cry. And as Din reached the door, the truth came to him — not violently as he deserved or was used to, but slowly. Gently. Almost tenderly.

All this time, Din had thought this movement was just a part of his job. He needed to move. He needed to go. The kid’s life depended on it, but that wasn’t the full story. Din didn’t do domestic. He hadn’t known rest or consistent warm meals with laughter and snarky comments since he was a kid. He didn’t know pleasant breakfasts and old ladies that both doted on him and cussed him out all before sunrise. In this place, there was no fight to be had, only a home to rest in. He'd never admit how lost he felt, how he didn’t know what to _do_ with those things.

Din slammed the door behind him as if locking the secret inside and taking the key. _He wasn’t running away._ He just needed some fresh air. He needed to clear his head, regain control somehow. He needed time, space, isolation.

 _But he wasn’t running._ This wasn’t _that._

With the wind at his back, Din moved as far away from the cottage as he could.

Time, Din discovered, was like a languid lover on Dantooine. She was in no rush to leave, insisting on staying to remain with the present day. It shouldn’t have been that way. 25 hour-long days weren’t long compared to other planets. Yet, whether due to the people, culture, or time, life on Dantooine moved at a snail’s pace. The minutes seemed to drag their feet, feeling more like hours. Thus, when Din checked his watch and realized only forty-three minutes had passed since he’d left the cottage, he near groaned.

Din leaned up from the tree and stared out into the grasslands. The night sky had washed the field in deep blue and purple. Fireflies now flashed bulbs of light above the fields. Thankfully, the soft light from the moons made it so Din could see everything fairly easily.

So easily, in fact, that Din noticed a figure hobbling towards him some feet away. A cane clicked in the grass, the sound growing louder the closer it neared, and stopped when it reached him.

Elgie rested her hands on the crook of her cane and stood beside him. For a long time, neither he nor Elgie said a word. He didn’t know what to say. It’d been all of forty minutes and all Din had done was rehearse apologies he didn’t know how to offer. Besides, they all sucked anyway. His apologies were either too forceful or not remorseful enough.

“I came to tell you to quit moping and come eat some grub with us,” Elgie said with a tone lighter than Din had expected. “Sure, there’s nowhere to sit and Maisy can’t cook for shit, but we can still eat together.”

There was kindness in that statement and it felt excruciating.

“I’m not…” Din exhaled heavily, meaning to say _I’m not hungry_ or maybe _I’m not moping_ , but what came out was, “I don’t belong here.”

“No, you don’t,” Elgie agreed without malice. “And yet, here you are.”

For a second, Din didn’t know what to say.

“The child…” He hesitated. _Did he really want to ask?_ “Is he okay?”

Elgie hummed. “He’s asking for you…in his own way, of course.”

Din nodded and again, they drifted back into silence. It didn’t feel awkward per say. If anything, Din wanted to scrounge up the right words to communicate what he’d done. He’d reacted impulsively, emotionally. He’d been unbridled. There was no honor in that behavior.

“That’s some youngin’ you’ve got,” Elgie suddenly said, gazing out into the fields. “I’d heard of such things…thought they were just tales, just foolish stories of power, but your boy…”

Despite himself, Din felt his body go tense, as if readying for something. Elgie was no threat and yet, the same protective feeling flooded his chest all the same.

“Explains a lot.” Elgie said vaguely. Somehow, reading his confusion, she added, “When the ship crashed into Maisy’s garden, we figured whoever was inside had to be dead. No one can make a drop like that. No one. Yet, somehow, we found you two passed out on that ship without a scratch on yous.”

Din tried to put the pieces together. “The alcove was secure. I’m sure it did the job.”

Elgie shook her head and murmured, “No, I doubt it would have…”

Din didn’t know how to argue with that statement. Even when the ship had started to drop, he’d also doubted that they would survive. There hadn’t been enough power to send the kid in an emergency pod, so he’d banked on the alcove.

“It took Aea a few days to crack your security code and access the ship’s footage.” She nudged him with her elbow, a wicked smile on her lips. “Poor gal refused at first, thought it was breaking and entering or some foolishness. Oh, was it a trip getting her to commit a felony! She doesn’t know that, of course. Either way, we got what we needed and saw…we saw it.”

Din waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t, he asked. “What did you see?”

Elgie shrugged. “At the time, we didn’t know. You were out cold, but the baby… Well, he looked like he was holding up the world or some invisible thing that kept all the junk from crashing down on y’all.”

Din tried to keep his body relaxed, controlled, but he couldn’t stop himself from swallowing hard.

“We figured it was some fluke in the system, but it wasn’t. After yesterday, I know it wasn’t…” Elgie turned to him with an expression that Din couldn’t place. “That child almost killed that thing for you yesterday.”

The wind-chill slipped beneath his under armor, prickling his skin and yet, Din felt his body chilled in a different way. Somewhere, in the distance, an animal howled.

“He will not harm you,” Din finally said, struggling to keep his voice even.

Elgie looked like she wanted to hit him with her cane. “Are you that dense? I don’t care about that crap! He can choke a damn bunny for all I care. That’s not the point!”

She narrowed her eyes and pointed the cane at him. “The point is _you_ don’t just get to leave, Mando.”

Din started, not following. “What?”

“Don’t you _what_ me.” Elgie jabbed her cane into his side. “That child protected you and now you’re out here sulking like some toddler. We already have one baby in this house. We don’t need another.”

“I’m not sulking.”

She jabbed her cane into his foot and Din actually yelped. “I ain’t no liar, Mando.”

Din glared, but otherwise inched away from her (and her cane) and said nothing. Elgie swiped a hand through her short white hair and huffed.

“Get it through that thick skull of yours. We don’t care about what happened, okay?” Elgie breathed out, sounding both exasperated and tender. “To you, we may look like some frail old ladies, but we’re not afraid of a baby…especially one that’s just protecting its father.”

Suddenly, a flush started to warm on Elgie’s face. “You might be a royal pain, Mandy, but we, well, I guess we…We like you, alright?” Clearing her throat, she grimaced and rushed to add, “But you still suck! Your manners are shitty. You’ve got the worst social skills. You’re a conversation finisher, and you brood like a constipated old man. You’ve got some rough edges, but y’know we were…we _are_ willing to look past them.”

Despite the fact that Din was unsure whether to feel honored or insulted, a warm feeling still seeped under his armor.

Elgie released a deep sigh like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “But you can’t walk out…not on that baby.”

“I wouldn’t leave him,” Din replied. Without exactly meaning to, he found himself saying, “But soon, I will have to reunite him with his kind.”

Elgie looked taken aback. “What are you talking ab—”

“I’m not his father,” Din said, more for himself than for her. The words burst from him, as if desperate to get out. “I found him. According to the Creed, I am as his father…for now, until I find his people. Then, I will return him back to where he belongs.”

Elgie shook her head. “That will…that’ll break his heart.”

Again, Din felt that familiar sense of loss, already trying to grab ahold of his heart. He couldn’t let emotions get in the way though. Was the kid attached to him? Yes. Was he attached to the kid? Maybe more than he cared to admit, but none of that mattered. Not really.

“He’ll get over it.” Din breathed out, leaning back against the tree. There were reasons, so many reasons, he needed to do his duty. “He needs a family—”

“ _You_ _are_ his family.” Elgie stabbed a finger into his chest.

Din locked his jaw. “I cannot give him what he needs.”

“The only thing he seems to need and want is you,” Elgie quipped, eyes alight and fervent.

“Well, he needs more than that, I can assure you.” Din rolled off the tree and began to pace back and forth. “What do children need? Consistent food? Lodging? Safety? I can offer none of those things.”

“That’s not true.” Elgie hobbled forward. “You love the boy. I know you don’t want to give him up and it’d only hurt the child if you left him. Surely, you must see that.”

Din just looked at her. “Is it _loving_ to keep the child for myself and subject him to violence and danger, where all he’ll know is terror? Where he’ll have to fear for his life every goddamn day? Is it loving to keep him from his own people, his family? Is that love, Elgie? Is it?”

This time, Elgie had no response and Din knew he was right.

“There is going to come a day when he must be returned. I have to be ready for that,” Din resolved, now standing still.

It didn’t matter that Din had to return the child to a class of enemies; neither, still, did it matter that Din was growing attached to the child. Elgie acted as if he could simply choose to keep the kid, but she was wrong. It was easy to make a choice, harder still was bearing the consequences. Din’s line of work had taught him a crucial truth: there were rarely happy endings, only complicated and bloody stories. He’d learned a lot of hard lessons in his life, but this was the hardest of them all: love didn’t always look like keeping. There would be grief, but Din would be fine. He was well-acquainted with loss.

For a while, the old lady just clutched her cane. “So, what’ll you do? Hold the child at arms length until you hand ‘im over like some unwanted thing?”

“I’m damned if I don’t.”

Elgie stabbed her cane into the ground.“You’re damned if you keep wasting all the time you _do_ have with the boy rehearsing something that hasn’t happened yet!”

Din opened and shut his mouth, surprised.

“Geez, would you think with your head and not that stupid helmet for just one second!” Elgie huffed in exasperation. “Preparing yourself for loss doesn’t make it hurt less when it happens. Take it from me, you just end up with a shitload of regrets.”

 _Regrets?_ It made more sense to prepare himself. Otherwise, how could Din trust himself to give the child up? Truthfully, Din didn’t trust himself. He’d surprised himself by going back for the kid once before. He’d been willing to break the Guild code and brand himself as a fugitive, all for the sake of the child. What made him think he wouldn’t also break the Creed?

It was better to steel himself; it helped Din to fulfill his duties. This didn’t have anything to do with his feelings. This was about the child and what was best for him. Nothing more.

Suddenly, Elgie’s eyes narrowed and she began to walk towards him with her cane.

“You keep making all these excuses, saying the child will get over it and he’ll be better off, but I’m beginning to think you’re not actually talking about him.” Elgie stopped in front of him, voice low. “Is it really only the child’s heart that might break?”

Din swallowed and searched for the words to deny it all. He wanted to throw back some retort to say that no, this was only about the child’s wellbeing. Yet, for all his searching, the words were nowhere to be found. Instead, all Din found was an ache throbbing in his chest.

Elgie hummed and nodded to herself. “Yes, well, why don’t we grab some grub while you… _think_ a bit more?”

With nothing left to say, Din just nodded. She winked at him and began to limp back towards the cottage. Din followed silently behind her.

The fireflies danced around them, hovering over their heads. In their light, Din could see the little house waiting for them in the distance. Smoke curled from the chimney, disappearing into the night sky. As they drew closer, Din noticed Aea and Maisy in the window, angling around each other in the kitchen.

He swallowed and stopped, hesitating as they approached the broken door. He didn’t know what to say yet. Surely, it’d come out awful. It always did.

Elgie turned around. “Well? You comin’?”

Din glanced at the windows again, hearing the rise in voices on the inside. _They were bickering again._

Sighing, Din nodded and followed Elgie inside as she pushed the door open with her cane.

All the activity halted when they stepped inside. Maisy stopped stirring a large pot on the stove and Aea, true-to-form, pinked and wiped her hands on her apron at least four times. For a long time, only a boiling sound could be heard from within the pot. Din figured he should be the first one to speak. He’d had his time to think things over and it’d only be right if he—

“Get your ass over here and grab a plate, Mandy,” Maisy demanded, breaking Din out of this thoughts. Though her voice was harsh, her eyes were soft. “I don’t care if you can’t eat in front of us. We’re not eating without you,”

Elgie sidled up close to him and whispered, “That’s her way of saying ‘I’m sorry’ if you didn’t know. S’ the best she’s got.”

Din didn’t know what she needed to apologize for.

“And this is mine.” Aea stepped in front of him, a shy smile on her lips, as she handed him a small container. “There’s some bacta spray in there. It’s our last one. I think…well, if you use it soon, I think your arm should be okay.”

Din didn’t even look at the container. “Aea—”

“The ladies say I can be bit coddling,” she tucked a curl behind her ear and yet still, grabbed another and pulled at it while she spoke. “I…I can get carried away sometimes.”

“Aea—” Din tried to swallow, but found it near impossible. “I’m…I shouldn’t have—

“—I know,” she soothed.

Just as he said, “—I was…wrong.”

Aea nodded, but it was different from her usual manner. It was both accepting and understanding.

“And _I’m_ hungry! So can we please, eat already!” Elgie exclaimed, shoving Aea out of the way and hobbling into the kitchen (or, what was left of it).

Din smirked as the old woman crowded around Maisy, trying to get a peek into the pot. To which, Maisy smacked her hovering hand and called her a number of expletives that even Din didn’t know. Aea offered him an apologetic smile and began to remove plates from the cupboard. The setting was oddly domestic and warm. The only thing missing was—

“Where’s the kid?” Din asked.

For some reason, both Maisy and Aea started smiling.

“Oh, he’s in the sitting room.” Maisy stirred the pot, turning her back to him, but Din heard something like amusement in her voice. “You should go check on him.”

Din glanced at Aea who immediately ducked her head and walked around him with the plates, suddenly avoiding him. _Odd._ Well, he’d find out soon enough. Din set the container on the counter and walked around the piles of glass. Nervously, he stepped down into the sitting room.

A lone lamp was on, casting a warm glow around the room. In the middle of the carpet, the kid lay on his stomach with a sea of colorful markers splayed around him. Babbling to himself, he scribbled on a sheet of paper that was larger than his own body.

Din stepped forward and the boards underneath creaked. The kid turned to look at him, ears perking up, and Din swallowed, unsure. He should have knocked (but, on what?). Or offered some apology first (but, what the hell would he have said?)? Sure, the child wouldn’t understand it, but at least, Din wouldn’t feel so guilty. He shouldn’t have just snuck up on the kid, especially after making him cry.

But the child just dropped his marker, wobbled to his feet, and started waddling towards him. The kid grabbed Din’s boot and looked up at him. Almost instantly, the stress melted out of Din. Sighing, he crouched down and sat on the floor next to the kid.

“What have you got there?”

He slipped the paper from behind the kid. What stared back at him was… Well, actually, Din didn’t know. There was a small green lopsided blob and a tall brownish-black blob with a jagged line running between the two. Actually, it looked like both blobs were being impaled. A square-like object hovered over the brown drawing and a black ’T’ ran through it like Din’s helmet.

Din froze and brought the picture closer, noticing the similarities now. _Just like his helmet…and his armor._ It was him. So, the green thing was...

The kid climbed over his thigh, giggling, and plopped down between his legs. He leaned back against Din’s stomach and cooed contentedly.

Din set the drawing down. He cleared his throat and stared up at the ceiling, blinking away the rush of emotion.

“You okay in there?” Maisy peeked her head in.

“Ye…Yeah.” Din’s voice cracked.

Maisy snorted. “To get him to settle down, Aea gave him those markers. Little rugrat’s been at it ever since. We’ve got loads of his other drawings.” She nodded her head towards the kid’s picture. “Only seems to like drawing one thing though.”

Din glanced back at the picture, swallowing as he eyed the two blobs, then the jagged line connecting them, then the blobs again. Behind him, Maisy chuckled and disappeared back inside the kitchen.

Din, with a sudden smile now on his lips, peered back down at the kid. The child tilted his head back against Din’s stomach, gazing up at him, and looking horribly cross-eyed.

Shaking his head, Din snagged the drawing off the floor and held it out.

“Ah,” the kid babbled, pointing at some random scribbles running throughout the paper.

“Yeah, I don’t know what that is,” Din breathed.

The child gurgled and chattered a response, mixed with spit and giggles.

“You don’t say…” Din responded.

The kid ‘ooo’ed’ and glanced up at him, pointing to the brown blob.

“An accurate description,” Din affirmed.

Suddenly, the kid sneezed and green snot shot all over Din’s boots. _Great._ The child clapped his hands and giggled. _And the Armorer had said, this was the Way._

Shaking his head, Din stood, careful not to get the gunk on the carpet or jostle his bandaged arm. He pointed his finger at the kid. “I’m going to clean this up. Now, you stay here. You, stay.”

The child stuck a fist in his mouth and drooled in response. Din sighed, pretty sure the child didn’t understand a word he said. Smiling, in spite of the mess, Din left to find a wet rag.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, only Maisy stood by the stove, cutting up a handful of vegetables. The other ladies were nowhere to be seen. Silently, Din angled around her and snagged a dish towel, beginning to run it under the water.

Randomly, Maisy asked, “So, where’s the youngin’s mother?”

“Don’t know.” Din wrung the water out from the rag.

The knife paused, then resumed. “Okay…” she rolled out. “Then, what’s the lass’s name?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Maisy sputtered and turned around, eyes wide. “Mandy, you didn’t strike me for the type!”

Din sighed. “It’s not like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure, it isn’t.”

Not knowing how to explain the situation, Din just started to wipe the snot from his boots. In the silence, just beyond the kitchen, he could hear the wind chimes clanking in the breeze.

“So then, what does the youngin’ call you?”

Din tossed the rag in the sink. “He can’t speak yet, but when he does, I’ll be his _buir._ ”

Maisy dragged the knife across the cutting board, shaping the vegetables into a mound. “Is that ‘ _dad_ ’ or something?”

“The name isn’t gender specific,” Din said casually.

Maisy froze and stared at him. Suddenly, she burst out laughing.

“Did I say something?” Din frowned.

“Oh shit… _Oh_ , this is too good!” Maisy pressed a hand to her chest, struggling to catch her breath. She pointed the knife at him. “You mean to tell me, that that boy could be calling you mama?”

Din opened his mouth, then closed it. Well, he’d never thought about it that way.

Maisy howled with laughter and Din somehow felt strangely embarrassed.

“Oh wait until I tell the ladies.”

 _He really hoped she wouldn’t._ Scowling, Din slipped out of the kitchen and headed back to the sitting room. When he returned, he found the kid back on his stomach with marker in hand — drawing all over the carpet.

~*~

By the time they’d cleaned up dinner, swept up any remaining glass, and shoved a few broken portraits into a corner, the kid was fast asleep. His face was pressed up against Din’s side, a lone hand resting on the chest plate.

Din adjusted him in his good arm and murmured, “I’m going to head upstairs.”

Aea looked up from scrubbing the rotten meal off the floor and Maisy, too, paused with dust pan in hand. They both nodded, but kept quiet, not willing to wake the child.

Elgie snagged the pacifier from the counter and hobbled towards him. “Here,” she whispered, keeping her voice low. “The little one may need it.”

She slipped the rubber object into his belt pocket. Din nodded at her in thanks and began to walk up the stairs. He stepped over a bloodstain, now saturated into the carpet, and paused.

“What’d you do with the body?” He asked quietly, turning around.

Pinking, Aea looked at Elgie. Elgie looked at Maisy.

Maisy just kept sweeping up the broken pottery pieces and said, “Dinosaur-face is sleeping with the turnips. He can rot with ‘em for all I care.”

Din sighed, but said nothing. He was going to have to have a talk with Maisy. She couldn’t just bury a dead body in her turnip garden. He’d have to save that conversation for in the morning.

Nodding, he walked up the stairs and turned into his sleeping quarters. He nudged the door closed with his elbow.

Din shivered the minute he stepped inside. He hadn’t been in the room for a day and without a proper fire, the place felt like an icebox. Setting the kid on the bed, Din pulled back the quilt and sheets with his good hand. Awkwardly, he scooped the kid back up and tucked him inside. The child hummed in his sleep and turned over, smushing his ear against the pillow.

Din stroked the kid’s head and pulled the covers up a little higher before turning to lock the door. Sighing, he proceeded to get the fire going again. With the amount of kindling and dried logs Din used, the room would definitely stay warm for a while. He’d only need to add more logs in the morning.

An ache throbbed in his body when he struggled to stand. Without the use of both arms to steady him, Din’s movements felt graceless, almost clumsy. He’d treat his arm first thing in the morning with the spray. Hopefully, it’d do the job and Din could have his arm back. But for now, he needed sleep.

It took him longer to remove each piece of his armor and by the time Din finally hit the release latch on his helmet, he could have passed out from exhaustion. Pulling back the covers, Din slid into bed with his bandaged arm pressed against his chest, careful not to jostle the wound.

His eyelids felt heavy and yet still, Din tilted his head to steal a glance at the child. The kid’s bald head peeked out from the covers. Din nudged the quilt lower and physically relaxed when he saw the child’s sleeping face. The little womp rat was out cold. _Good._ Hopefully, Din could get a few solid hours in before the kid woke up. He just needed to shut his eyes for a little while.

At ease, Din finally fell asleep to the crackling of firewood and the smell of burnt pine.

Except, it only felt like minutes later, when Din’s eyes opened again. He couldn’t have been asleep for long. The fireplace was still going. A piece of wood popped and sparks spewed out, flying up the chimney. Din wiped a hand down his face, still disoriented and confused. It was normal for him to wake up after four hours of sleep, but Din was pretty sure he hadn’t even slept for two. So, then, why was he awake?

A sudden whimper sounded from the side of the bed and Din jumped when the room began to shake. Startled, he glanced to his right. The kid’s face was crumpled and tense. A tiny hand squeezed the quilt and the lamp beside Din shattered. Suddenly, the kid cried out.

“Hey!” Din struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain in his bandaged arm.

The child whimpered and fisted the sheets. The clock on the bedside table squealed and crumpled in on itself like a piece of paper.

“Kid.” Din shook him, but the child didn’t wake up. Tears slipped from the kid’s eyes, pattering onto the pillowcase. A small portrait fell off the wall and shattered.

_Shit._

“ _Ad’ika_!” Din whisper-yelled, near desperate and shaking the kid like a madman.

Suddenly, the child’s eyes snapped open with a look of fright that even Din had never seen. Din was pretty sure he looked just as scared.

“Ad’ika,” he said softer this time and the room stopped shaking. The kid’s lower lip wobbled and he stumbled out from underneath the covers. Weeping, he collapsed into Din.

Din stifled a groan when the child knocked against his arm. The wound sent a sharp pain through his arm, but Din barely noticed it, too preoccupied with the kid, crying into his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Din murmured, cupping the back of the child’s head, but the kid just grabbed onto his shirt and sobbed.

The cries weren’t like ones that Din had ever heard from human children. They sounded almost like low warbles, and if the center of Din’s shirt hadn’t been as soaked as it was, he wouldn’t have known the kid was crying.

“It’s okay,” Din soothed, stroking the child’s head.

The kid sniveled and dug his face into Din’s chest, as if trying to get closer than he already was. Din, not knowing what else to do, just caressed the kid’s head.

Din felt like he was being torn in two. He knew what he should do: force the kid to lay down and go back to sleep. Otherwise, Din would be in danger of coddling him. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t have the heart — not when the child was holding onto him so tightly.

Before Din had met the kid, he would have said he knew himself well, but since then, Din wondered if he knew himself at all? How could a few tears and a nightmare strike such fear into his heart? How could he feel so damn helpless? Din was a Mandalorian — and he was being undone by a child.

Din didn’t know how long they stayed that way. All he knew was that by the time the kid’s cries had turned hoarse and whimper-y, the fire had flickered down into weak embers. He didn’t want to risk setting off the kid’s fit again, but his arm was cramping and he needed to sit up.

Carefully, he removed the kid from his chest. Instantly, the child went rigid and let out a cry.

“Hey, look at me,” he hushed as the child’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re okay.”

The kid sniffled and rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the tears. Yet, more tears just replaced them and the child simply held out his hands to Din.

Sighing, Din set the kid on the quilt and struggled to climb out of bed. The child made a noise and scrambled for his hand, stumbling after him.

Din hurried to kneel on the floor, almost toppling over in his attempt to avoid the glass.

“Ad’ika,” he meant to scold, but the kid was already grabbing onto his face and Din, feeling his heart clench, gave up.

“Did you have a bad dream?” Din asked, pulling back to look at him.

Ears drooped, the kid blubbered under his breath, telling Din all about it. He hiccuped and rubbed at his eyes, sniffling.

“Yeah?” Din wiped at the child’s tears.

The kid leaned into his palm and Din sighed as a tear rolled down his wrist.

“ _Me’bana?_ ” Din asked softly.

The child tilted his head, suddenly intrigued. It took Din a second to realize he’d switched languages without thinking.

“What happened?” He clarified, as if the child could understand Basic either. Din caressed the kid’s cheek. “I can’t read your mind.”

He wished he could calm him, but Din was too tired to offer another story. Neither did he want to rummage through the kitchen to find a bottle. They didn’t have many options at this time of night. Sure, Aea had given the kid a few things to help calm him, but—

Suddenly, an idea emerged in Din’s head. He rolled to his feet and wandered over to the chair where he’d laid his armor and belt.

“No,” Din said, noticing the kid start to wriggle off the bed, following after him. The child sniffled and keened, sounding both insistent and terribly demanding.

Before the kid could start up again, Din pulled out the rubber soother out from his belt pocket and hurried back to the bed. He slipped the pacifier into the kid’s mouth and set him on the pillow. Awkwardly, Din shuffled back onto the bed, leading with his good arm.

He scooped up the child again and laid the kid beside him. Pulling up the sheets, he whispered, “ _Nuhoyir_ , ad’ika. Sleep.”

The child glanced down at the quilt and whimpered around the pacifier. Frantically, he began to push off the blankets.

“Hey.” Din stopped him, pulling the sheets back up. He patted the quilt covering the child’s stomach. “You must rest.”

Sighing, Din shifted onto his side and turned his back on the kid. A few minutes passed and Din could still feel eyes on him.

“Close your eyes,” Din said.

A low whimper crooned and Din, against his better judgment, turned back around. A pair of wet eyes stared down at the quilt and Din saw fear in the child’s gaze.

“They’re just blankets,” Din said. “They don’t cause bad dreams.”

The child looked at him, then back at the blankets. His lower lip wobbled.

“No, no,” Din started, internally trying to calm his own panic. “We talked about this.”

Still, the child shimmied out from under the blankets and scrambled over to him.

Din started. “Hey, wait, no—” but it was no use.

The kid had already hoisted himself over Din’s thighs and climbed up his stomach. Din protested as the child shuffled up his chest and tucked himself under his chin. Though the child cooed against his skin, the angle made Din’s neck hurt. If he slept like this, he’d definitely wake up with a crook in his neck in the morning.

Turning over, Din shifted the kid, so he was laying on his side. The position was awkward for both of them and if Din dared to move an inch, his arm raised all kinds of hell. Nevertheless, the child still scooted close and clutched at his shirt, staring up at him with wet eyes.

Din caressed the kid’s cheek with his thumb and murmured, “ _Gar_ _morut'yc._ ” Then, thinking maybe it was a good idea to actually _teach_ the kid, Din translated. “You’re safe.”

The grip on his shirt tightened, and the child started to hiccup around the pacifier.

“Hush, I’m not going anywhere,” Din calmed, stroking the kid’s back. “I’m here. Daddy’s here.”

Din froze and almost smacked himself in the head. _Well, shit._ Rationale hurried into his mind, almost frantic. _It had slipped out. It didn’t mean anything, not really. The kid wouldn’t understand anyway—_

The child cooed and snuggled into him, as the pacifier pulsated steadily against Din’s chest. Despite himself, Din drew the child closer. He pulled the blankets up around them and tucked the quilt under the kid’s chin. The child, thankfully, didn’t stir or attempt to kick them back off. Instead, the kid yawned and, eyelids drooping, fell back asleep.

Din breathed a sigh of relief and stared up at the ceiling. _Well, that was an episode._ He didn’t dare examine the state of the room, but in the back of Din’s mind, he made a mental note to talk to Aea about the noise and the clock and the picture frame…and the lamp.

If Din didn’t know any better, he’d say the kid was getting worse. When he’d comm’ed Cara, Din had assumed that the kid just needed more time with him. He’d planned to buckle down, hold on to the kid more, and keep their planet-stops to a minimum (they’d attract less attention that way). He vowed to spend more time with the child. Yet, now, Din was beginning to wonder if the child’s issues extended beyond the separation? Could they even be solved with mere physical touch and proximity?

Still, those were only surface level questions. Beneath them, Din found a much more disturbing question gnawing at his mind: _What did he even know about the child?_

Din had never thought about the kid’s past. Honestly, did it really matter? Lineage and bloodlines were frankly unimportant. Origin stories rarely carried weight in the clan. The past was said to be a trail of weak footprints, easily carried away by the sands of time. Erased. Besides, the kid was safe now. Din had cleared the Nikto guards’ facility on Arvala-7. He’d managed to protect the kid from Moff Gideon and the Imperial Client (the latter who was, thankfully, dead) and so far, no one had stolen the child from Din. Things were better than Din could have hoped.

So then, why did Din feel so unsettled? Why was his mind tormented by a flood of questions? Thus far, he’d managed to suppress their incessant plea to be heard, but his resolve was slipping now. In light of the kid’s episode, the wall in Din’s mind was crumbling and the questions, with nothing left to stop them, came rushing in.

 _How long had the kid spent in the pram on Arvala-7?_ Din didn’t know.

 _Did anyone take him out? Or did his captors keep the pram sealed?_ Din didn’t know that either.

How had the Nikto guards obtained the child? How many hunters had stolen the kid? And where was Din in the lineup? Did the kid’s captors even think to feed him? When was the last time someone had held the child with care? Or was Din the first?

“Dammit,” Din groaned, swiping a hand down his face as his head started to throb. _He really wasn’t cut out for this._

There were too many questions and not enough answers.

Suddenly, the child whimpered in his sleep and Din, looking down, traced his fingers along the kid’s furrowed brow. “Shh, you’re fine. I’m here.”

 _But for how long?_ If Din did find the kid’s people, how easy would it be to hand the child off now? And would Din just harm the kid more by doing so? He hoped that wouldn’t be the case. Honestly, Din didn’t want to think about it much more. His questions were purely speculative. They didn’t _prove_ anything really. Din didn’t know for sure that the kid’s past had been hard. Besides, the child was 50 years old and still a baby. How much could the kid remember that time, in its mercy, wouldn’t erase?

Satisfied, Din wrapped his arm around the child and closed his eyes. The boy would be alright. True, the kid’s early beginnings had been rough, but the child was still an infant. How bad could his earliest years have been?

The wind whistled against the windowpane and the sound, surprisingly, lulled Din to sleep — and yet, just before Din drifted off, one last thought resurfaced in his mind. It hovered above his consciousness like a feather and molded itself into one of the sayings from his old teacher, _Tor Ijaat._

Ca’nara ne gotal’u mirjahaal—shi gotal’u haastal.

_Time doesn’t heal — not really. It only forms a scab._

~*~

It was sometime the following morning when the truth finally came out.

Din had been trying to give the kid a brief wash up. Frankly, he barely managed to wipe behind the kid’s ears before the child ooo’ed and splashed water all over Din’s previously-dried clothes. The kid erupted into a giggling-fest, tipped over the water basin and Din, too tired to scold, just sighed. He abandoned, what he loosely called, “bath time” (if it could even be called that) and headed downstairs with the child.

Much to Din’s surprise, the women were already waiting at the bottom of the steps for him, looking incredibly suspect.

Din stopped on the stairs and looked between them.

“Well?” Aea elbowed Maisy, shooting her a glare that made even Din shiver. “Tell him.”

Maisy hissed and held up her hands. “Alright, alright. Damn, don’t be such a sourpuss.”

“She’s right,” Elgie adjusted her glasses. “You ought’a be ashamed of yurself.”

“Don’t be a kiss ass,” Maisy said, narrowing her eyes. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Aea cleared her throat, glared at Maisy _again_ , and nodded in Din’s direction. “Well, fess up.”

“Fine!” Maisy exclaimed angrily, but when she finally looked at Din, he saw the anger melt into a weird sheepishness. She scratched the back of her head and said, “Well, Mando, the cat’s outta the bag.”

Din blinked, not following. _There was a cat?_

“That doesn’t tell him anything!” Aea hissed.

“I ain’t done,” Maisy retorted, raising her chin. She cleared her throat and continued, “I may have, _well,_ I…might not have told you the _best_ truth about that ship of yours.”

Elgie snorted. “The best truth? Well, that’s some way of saying you lied.”

Maisy glanced nervously at him and hurried to say, “I didn’t _lie_ — per say. The valves were shot. I didn’t lie about that.”

Din frowned. “I’m not following.”

Aea huffed at Maisy and stepped forward, brushing the curls out from her face. “Your ship’s not going to take another week to fix. Maisy, here, has been _stalling_.”

“Not true,” Maisy retorted. “It _could have_ taken another week.”

“And yet, you forgot to tell him that the repairs could take less than that,” Aea threw back.

Maisy’s face reddened and, surprisingly, she just folded her arms and said nothing.

“It was out of spite,” Aea said, shooting Maisy a look.

“That’s a lie! I mean, at first I may have wanted to stick it to you, but I…well these things are complicated, y’know.” Maisy rung her hands, looking everywhere but at him. “I couldn’t be sure if you were tellin’ the truth about not being a baby napper and I… well, I didn’t know you were in that kind of trouble.”

Din, still not saying a word, finally put two-and-two together. The details mattered less than the final conclusion. _So, he hadn’t been told the full truth._ They could have evaded the hunter altogether. His ship could have been fixed.

“So, we could have left sooner,” Din concluded, vacillating between anger, confusion, and another emotion he couldn’t describe.

Swallowing, Maisy looked away and Din had his answer.

At that moment, the child started to fuss, tugging on Din’s under-armor and for the first time, Din was thankful for the distraction.

“Excuse me,” he said, slipping between the ladies.

He sidled around the kitchen and, already thinking about a departure plan, stepped out of the house.

Din had once heard that the trouble with being angry was how it left one wanting. _It can get you all fired up and then leave you cold and empty afterwards_ , the person had said. Din couldn’t disagree more. For him, anger always took time to simmer, only afterwards erupting onto some well-deserved culprit. With the time it took to get angry, Din found he could stay pissed for just as long.

Unfortunately, much to Din’s chagrin and surprise, his anger deflated only hours after he’d left the house. He blamed it on Aea. The woman had found him outside after a while, and proceeded to give him a backstory that only made Din feel simultaneously less and more mad.

“It’s my fault, honestly,” Aea had said, handing a cookie to the kid and watching him waddle off with it. “I…I should have known that she’d do this after what happened to Onii.”

Din refused to speak and Aea, bless her, respected that.

“We used to help random travelers, just passing through. We didn’t see much wrong with it. We’re a planet of farmers, not mercenaries and bandits,” Aea explained. “Onii’s birthday was coming and I…well, I’m so forgetful and I forgot the _ogja_ for his cake. Maisy offered to watch him and she insisted Elgie and I go. It was only supposed to take an hour… _just_ an hour.”

Aea twisted the shawl so tightly around her fingers, Din feared the cloth would rip. “A…man came by, said he needed some repairs. Maisy offered to help. Then he…It was a ruse.” She hugged her own shoulders and exhaled shakily. “My boy’s gone.”

She sucked in a breath and offered him the saddest smile, and Din — well, Din felt even more pissed for some reason.

“So, you see? It’s my fault,” she said.

Din didn’t see how it was — not that it mattered. He felt even more mad but if anything, he was angry at the entire situation. He didn’t know what could have been changed, what anyone would have done differently, and that pissed him off. Din wasn’t big on excuses and yet, he knew Aea’s explanation wasn’t one of them. Din knew it was the truth, which made everything the more complicated.

Suddenly, the child wobbled up to him. He waved his fist around, touting something in his hand.

Din crouched down. “What do you have there?”

The kid opened his fist, revealing a wilted yellow flower with all the petals broken off. Cooing, he held it up to Din.

Din sighed. “It’s dead now.”

“Uh,” the kid insisted, holding the stem out.

“Fine.” Din took the crumpled stem.

The child looked up at him expectantly and behind Din, Aea chuckled. “Ah?”

“Thanks,” Din muttered, flushing underneath his helmet. “It’s…nice.”

The kid gurgled, clapped his hands and wobbled off again.

“He’s a delight,” Aea sighed, smiling to herself. “It’s been…good having you and your boy here. We all think so, but I…I’m sorry it was under these circumstances.”

Din looked at the flower stem, then at the kid stumbling over a trail of rocks, and just sighed. Maisy had lied and somehow, it’d resulted in the kid getting time to play. It’d resulted in the child waddling after butterflies and giving Din wilted flowers. And yet, it also meant they’d been tracked and almost killed by a hunter. The whole situation was ridiculous and yet, Din didn’t know how to think about it. He was still pissed at Maisy, but also so tired of standing outside. So then, what the hell could he do?

Exhaling, Din asked, “Can you watch the kid?”

Startled, Aea readjusted her shawl and nodded. Taking one last look at the child, waddling through the fields, Din stalked back to the cottage.

He entered the house just when Maisy, too, was hobbling back down the stairs. Upon seeing him, she pressed her lips together in a firm line and made a beeline for the kitchen. Randomly, she started to hack at a layer of dates that had been set out.

Din closed the door and, with nowhere to sit, just stood in the entrance way. For a while, neither of them said a word.

Then, suddenly, Maisy said, “I’m making butter bars.”

“Really?” Din said, for no other reason than needing something to say.

Maisy nodded, keeping her head down. “They say it helps win over enemies. Y’know, as a sign of peace.”

 _Oh,_ and suddenly, Din had a feeling they weren’t just talking about sweets anymore.

“Do you have an enemy?” Din asked, taking a step closer.

Maisy wiped at her nose with the back of her hand and chuckled weakly. “Yeah, he’s a pain in my ass, but he’s not…half bad. Didn’t know that at first though.”

Din took another step, but said nothing.

Maisy kept chopping and talking. “Truth is, I messed up and…’m pretty sure he’s going to blast me in my sleep.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately, I can’t play the ‘I’m old and frail’ card, so I’ll probably be dead tomorrow.”

Din fought a smile. “Should I come to your funeral?”

“With the way you look?” Maisy snorted. “Hell no.”

Suddenly, Din found himself leaning against the counter and Maisy stopped chopping. She exhaled and said, “I was kind of hoping…well, I hoped he and I could call it even?”

Din, thankful for the helmet shielding his face, actually smiled. “I think that can be arranged.”

Maisy audibly exhaled and set down the knife, finally looking at him. “I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

Because that was just it — Din did know, almost too well. He’d teamed up with the IG-Unit on Arvala-7 and also shot him without hesitation. He’d permitted the droid to join them on Nevarro and also accused him for Kuiil’s death. He’d threatened to kill the droid and yet, in the end when the IG-Unit had sacrificed itself, Din realized he’d been wrong. Yes, Din understood almost too well and it was only that understanding that simmered his anger. He knew what it meant to be scarred by tragedy and live life defensively. He wasn’t all that different from Maisy.

Would they have a long talk later? Yes. But Din couldn’t say he was as furious as he was before.

Visibly more relaxed now, Maisy scooped the dates into her hands and dumped them into a pot.

Wiping her hands, she said, “Oh, Aea and Elgie are gonna work on your ship now, so you should be out of here in two days. They’ll fix her right up.” Maisy paused, thinking, and added, “I mean, she’s trash, but she’ll be _better_ trash after they’re done.”

Din, debating whether to laugh or scowl, decided he’d let that one slide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. As usual, below, I've posted this chapter's psychology corner.
> 
> ‘Psych Corner with Din’
> 
> Let’s take a moment to sip on some creamy hot chocolate and chat about Din Djarin, the baby, and the complicated mess that is their story.
> 
> This chapter mainly highlights and intensifies the complicated and nuanced nature of Din’s choices and his relationship with the Child. Din’s armor is so metaphorical and encompasses him as a chapter. Beskar is a tough, reliable, durable alloy — incredibly strong. It represents, for me, Din’s guarded, protective, and reliable nature. The armor is meant to protect the most vulnerable parts of his body. Likewise, I notice that Din guards his emotions fiercely (this is so evident throughout the Disney+ series). Moreover, there is so much that Din hides from himself. For instance, in the last chapter on the Disney+ series, when the IG-unit is about to sacrifice, Din is clearly torn up. Yet, he insists that he isn’t sad. Though the easy explanation would be that Din is outrightly lying, I truly believe he didn’t recognize his own sadness. He hides so many of his true emotions behind that armor. It’s fascinating to examine how Din’s actions are the truest test to his real feelings. He rarely says out loud how he’s feeling emotionally, but his actions ALWAYS show it. To take this a step further, he’s constantly torn between his heart/true emotions and his duty. He clearly loves the Child and yet, is surprised by the things he finds himself doing and choices he finds himself making.  
> Moreover, the Child depends on him as a base for security and safety. The questions Din asked in the chapter are crucial. What was the child’s life like before Din stumbled upon him? Did anyone hold him? Did anyone nurture him or open the pram? Din may very well be the only one who’s truly shown consistent affection and protection towards the child.


	5. The Hunt (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all for waiting so patiently for the next chapter. I've been working on part one and two simultaneously, which has taken me a bit longer to complete.
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy Part 1 of Chapter 5.
> 
> As always, visit the 'End Notes' at the end of the chapter to read the latest 'Psych Corner with Din.'

“Are you sure you don’t want to take more soup? Do you have enough milk? What about water? Surely, you could use some more.”

 _Surely he couldn’t._ Din eyed the flasks of milk, dehydrated breads and meats, and steaming containers of soup already bulging from the shelves. If she added anything else, the damn thing would certainly break.

Even so, Aea still circled around him and tucked a pack of cookies in between two milk jugs.

“I don’t eat sweets,” Din grunted.

Aea turned and patted his stomach, smiling. “Sure you don’t.”

Din scowled and followed her out of the misc. room, grumbling as he closed all the panels, compartments, and lockers she’d opened up to “air out.”

She picked up a pair of trousers off his bunk and sniffed. “Oh goodness.”

Din snatched them from her.

“Now now, it’s nothing a little baking soda won’t fix,” she coaxed, grabbing for the pants.

Din held the pants out of reach and Aea visibly deflated. “Fine.”

She angled around the bunk, but Din still noticed her eyes roving around the area, searching for something else to clean. Din couldn’t release the hatch quick enough. As the landing unfurled, he tossed the pants back onto the bed and followed her out.

“But what about a mech-case? You can’t leave without one.” Aea shuffled down the steel landing and onto the grass. A cool breeze whistled through the air and she drew the shawl around her shoulders, shivering. “What if your ship has problems again? It would be good for emergencies.”

Din stepped down beside her. “I have one.” At her look of surprise, he added. “You gave it to me.”

“I did? Well, another wouldn’t hurt.”

Din just sighed. He knew a losing fight when he saw one. Now that they had repaired his engine and drained the leak, the women (Aea, more than the others) hadn’t ceased to stuff his ship with what they called “necessities.” Some of the items were in fact necessary —canisters of liquid rations, a medpac, extra blankets— and others were…not so much (Din didn’t see how cookies fell under that label).

More, the women had already bolted down and re-secured his grates (“Leave it to you to let this ship fall apart”), disinfected the cockpit (“What if the little one catches a virus?”), washed the blanket on his bunk (“What’re you sleeping with death, Mandy? Geez.”) and, much to Din’s consternation, scrubbed his toilet (“You ought to be ashamed of yourself”).

“Well, at least take this.” She handed him a slip of paper.

Din unfolded it and read the cursive. “Feeding times—”

“—with baby!” Aea beamed just as Din frowned, looking back down at the sheet. _Feed every two hours?_ What kind of creature ate that much?

“Oh, I also grabbed a few of these for the little one.”

Aea rummaged in the sling tied around her shoulder and whipped out a piece of clothing, immediately handing it to him. She grinned so hard Din feared a blood vessel might burst.

He held up the clothing and frowned. “He’s not wearing this.”

“But it’s so cute!” Aea snatched the apparel from him and pointed to the lettering. “ _I’m Locally Grown_. Isn’t that adorable? Most of the folks around here are farmers, so it’s a real kick. Don’t you think?”

_All things considered, not really._

“Well fine.” Aea crammed the garment into the sack and pulled out another one, stuffing it into his hands. “Maisy told me to give you that one, but I think it’s poor taste, if you ask me.”

Din doubted it could be as bad as the last one. He opened the garment and, of course, was proven wrong.

_Watch Your Language, Asshole. I’m a baby._

He exhaled, handing it back to her. “Do you have anything _without_ words?”

Aea’s eyes rounded into saucers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well—”

Din broke off, feeling a tug on his pant leg. He peered down and felt something within him instantly unravel.

“Ayah!” The kid held up an insect in his palm.

Aea cooed. “Well, would you look at that?”

A smile tempted on Din’s lips as he watched the child poke at the insect’s fluttering wings. Personally, Din didn’t see anything astounding about the bug. In fact, most things the little imp brought him were usually unimpressive, crushed, ugly, or dead. Yet, the kid never seemed to care much. A weed could be an object of fascination. But then again, so could a stone, or a leaf, or a blade of grass. Din rarely said much about it, especially since the kid’s show-and-tell was mostly harmless. Then, there were those few times when the kid brought him a dead rat or a bird’s wing and Din didn’t know whether to feel proud or horrified.

Elgie had scolded the child once and, in unequivocal terms, demanded that Din do the same. Yet, he never had the heart to stop the kid and squash his happiness.

The child had made friends on Sorgan. Din had watched him stumble after the older children, trying and mostly failing to keep up with their games. It was clear that the kid liked the community and change of pace, but with the discovery of yet another hunter, they’d had to leave. Din knew if he told all this to Cara, she’d say he was making a big deal out of nothing. Danger presented itself and Din had to make a tough call. _Sometimes you’ve gotta be the bad guy_ , she’d said offhandedly once. He knew she was right and yet, the truth still remained: the kid had been happy and Din, regardless of the pressing circumstances, had taken that from him.

_He didn’t want to do that again._

Crouching down, Din said softly, “What did you bring me today?”

The child ‘ooed’ and stuck out the bug, insistent.

“I see.” Din nodded, reaching out. “Now, let’s put that back—”

The kid smashed his hands together, the chirps gone.

_And he killed it. Fantastic._

Aea gasped and shot a glare at Din, looking real stern. “You’ve got to stop letting him do that.”

The child, too pleased with himself, cooed at the bug guts slathered on his hands. All Din could do was sigh. He really needed to have a talk with the kid about not killing things. Well, _harmless_ things.

Aea shuffled forward. “On no, honey, don’t do that...”

Suddenly, Din felt hands squeak down his helmet, yanking the steel down. Big round eyes ogled him through the viewfinder and the child’s babbles echoed through Din’s helmet.

Smirking, Din removed the kid’s hands and nudged him. “Go play. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Even as he stood, the child clung to his pant leg, babbling some nonsense that Din couldn’t make out.

He turned to Aea, sighing. “Do you have anything for his hands?”

A flush colored Aea’s cheeks as she gaped at him.

 _Odd._ Din frowned. “What?”

“Oh, nothing…nothing of course.” She hid a smile behind her hand and snickered. “You’ve just got a…”

“A what?”

Aea pressed her lips together. “You’ve got a wing on your—” She pointed to her cheek.

Grimacing, Din batted at his helmet. The child cooed and, with one hand on Din’s pant leg, tried to grab at the fluttering wing. The breeze caught it, flitting the broken wing through the air.

“Ah!” The child started to wobble after it, but then he glanced back with a nervous expression that Din had almost memorized.

“Go on,” Din encouraged.

The kid stared at him for a while, clearly uncertain. Only when Din showed no signs of movement did the child finally waddle off.

Aea appeared beside him. “He never seems to want to leave you.”

“No,” Din agreed.

It didn’t escape his notice that the kid would stop every few minutes to peek through the reeds, searching for him. The routine persisted like clockwork. It didn’t matter how much fun the child seemed to be having. Every few minutes, he’d race through the grass and into the clearing to make sure Din hadn’t left.

Yet, somehow, Din also found himself scanning the field, following the child’s toddling form. He didn’t just feel vigilant, but oddly attentive too. It was like he was waiting for something — a cry, a gasp, a babble — from the child that said _I need you_. Din found his body and emotions were also poised, ready and eager, to respond back, _I’m here._ The feeling was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

“Are…Are you sure you’ll be well enough to fly?” Aea suddenly asked.

Din sighed. _This was the fourth time she’d asked._ “I’ll be fine.”

“You know you could always stay a few more days. We have the room, and the baby likes it here.” She pulled on the strings of her shawl. “Besides, your arm could use some more healing. What…what if the spray was defective? That happens sometimes, you know.”

Din gave her a doubtful look. Bacta spray, for all its flaws, was anything but defective. After he’d applied the spray to his arm, the wound had healed up in less than five minutes, making it one less injury to worry about. His head still felt light every once in a while, but he wasn’t in pain anymore.

With the ship fixed and his wounds healed, there was nothing keeping him here and yet, Din knew he was lingering. They were supposed to have left two days ago, but then Elgie had said the bolts in his mechanical unit needed tightening and Maisy needed to change a bulb in the emergency beacon and Din _knew_ they were stalling. Yet, he never said a word. _He didn’t want to._

The wind whistled against Din’s armor, sending the reeds dancing across his knee-pads. Wind chimes, swinging above the cottage, jingled in the air and Din took it all in, savoring the moment. He doubted he’d know such peace for a while.

And yet, he still had to say, “We cannot stay.”

Aea sniffed and nodded. “Of course not.”

But her voice was shaky and so were the hands that drew the shawl around her. She was on the verge of tears and Din found that words failed him. There was no use making grandiose promises of a swift return. That’d be a lie. The chances of them coming back to Dantooine were slim to none.

He could think of no meaningful way to extend his thanks for all the women had done. So, instead, Din reached into his belt and held out a pouch of ingots to her.

Aea’s eyes softened at the money, but she shook her head. “Keep it.”

“Please,” he insisted. “You deserve this.”

The look she gave him seemed to say differently.

“To be paid for common decency … Is that what the universe is coming to?” She asked softly. Her curls whipped around her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were on the hills, but Din could tell she wasn’t really seeing them. “I didn’t realize kindness was in such short supply.”

Din scowled. “Kindness isn’t worth much these days.”

“Oh.” She said simply, _sadly_ , wrapping her arms around herself.

A sudden gust of wind shook leaves from one of the biba trees, sending the foliage flying through the air. The child screeched, waddling as fast as he could to catch them. For the third time within the hour, Din caught himself smiling.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think there are some valuable things in the universe, things too priceless even for money.” Aea murmured, eyes glued to the child.

Din looked at her.

She flushed and stared at the ground, fiddling with the ends of her blouse. “B-But maybe not. The ladies say I can be a bit naive. Rose-tinted glasses and all that. I’m sure…sure you know far more about these things being that you’re a—”

“No,” Din said. “No, I don’t.”

And truly, he didn’t. Din couldn’t remember when money had become synonymous with survival. Unlike other bounty-hunters, he wasn’t so interested in money as he was interested in what it could do for the Covert and the rearing of foundlings. The safety and longevity of the clan was all that mattered. He could care less about what happened to the bounties. Besides, caring would go against the Guild code. _And would easily get him killed._

But then, the kid happened and for the first time, Din was… _divided_. When the Client had presented the canister of beskar to him, even with a slab in his hand, Din’s attentions had been on the child. _What would they do with him?_ It was the first question on his mind when the carrier had floated away. He’d corrected his mistake out loud to the Imperial Client, but the damage had already been done. It was too late.

Din had called the child ‘him.’ Not _it_.

The Armorer had said Din deemed the child worthy — worthy of the destruction of Nevarro, of the Covert, of his own brothers and sisters. Din had never made such a choice, at least not consciously, and yet the choice had been made for him.

He’d assigned value, even without realizing it, and money had nothing to do with his decision.

“Where will you go next?” Aea asked, pulling Din out of his thoughts. There was an emphasis in the question, an edge, and it hit him that she’d asked the question before. _He hadn’t been listening._

“Don’t know,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter where, as long as we keep moving.”

“Because of that hunter?”

Din sighed. “There will be more.”

Aea sucked in a breath and exhaled shakily. She was obviously frightened and by the way her lips were twisting together, Din knew she was preparing to ask him to stay again. _As if that would help._

“There’s no other way,” Din said, settling the matter before Aea could argue.

Even so, Aea opened her mouth to retort, but what came out was not her voice.

“Are you two sissies done crying yet?”

Din turned just as Maisy sauntered up to them with Elgie hobbling behind her.

“I figured you were the type to get all sentimental over a goodbye,” Maisy said to him, folding her arms across her chest with a look of amusement, but the humor didn’t quite reach her eyes.

With all three women’s eyes on him, Din didn’t know what to say. There’d never been a need for him to say formal farewells. They felt just as uncomfortable as apologies.

So, he just said, “After we leave, you all should be safe. No hunters should come after you.”

“We were fine before you got here and we’ll be fine after you leave,” Maisy retorted with no heat in her words.

Elgie sidled up to him and whispered. “She’s saying she’ll miss you terribly.”

Maisy started. “When hell freezes over!”

“Oh, can we please not fight?” Aea whined, though ‘we’ clearly meant Maisy.

Maisy shot her a glare, but otherwise sighed and nodded towards Din’s ship. “Got everything you need?”

“Yes. Everything but—” Din glanced past the ladies, seeing a flash of green.

The child waddled through the reeds and down the clearing, holding up a balloon-like creature in his hands.

“Ah, shit.” Maisy swore. “Damn baby’s got a fabool.”

Din stepped past the women, exhaling, as the child ran up to him, waving the squirming creature in the air.

“Go put it back,” Din instructed.

The child glanced at the writhing creature then back at Din, babbling under his breath.

“Put _it_ back,” Din repeated, folding his arms over his chest plate.

A look of mischief flashed in the kid’s eyes and Din only got out “Don’t you dare” before the little womp rat took off running.

“Dammit.” Din hurried after him, weaving through the reeds as the child darted out of his reach. The kid screeched, giggling, as Din snatched him up and pushed the bulbous creature out of his hands. With a cheep, the critter bounced to the ground and scuttled away, disappearing behind the blades of grass.

The little imp bounced in Din’s arms as they walked back to the ladies.

Elgie smirked when he reached them.“I’ll give you a year before you go grey.”

“A year?” Maisy snorted. “I’d give him a month.”

“Care to wager a bet?”

Din scowled as the two women bartered back and forth. He readjusted the child in the crook of his arm until the hold was tight enough to keep the kid still, at least for more than five minutes. Even so, the little imp still managed to wiggle an arm out from under his body, cooing. _Damn kid._

Suddenly sniffling, Aea shuffled forward and tucked the kid’s collar under his chin. Her hand shook as she smoothed down the child’s romper. “Take care, little one.”

She stepped back, eyes filling with quiet tears, as Elgie and Maisy sidled up next to her, the humor now drained from their expressions. Din recognized the drawn look on their faces — the downcast eyes, the knit brows — too easily. _Grief._ Loss had already settled into the atmosphere and, in the back of Din’s mind, he remembered why he didn’t do goodbyes.

“Keep…” Aea sucked in a shaky breath and Elgie rubbed her back. “Keep him safe, okay?”

Din nodded, feeling the sadness start to seep under his armor.

“Don’t go getting yourself killed either,” Maisy added, sounding unusually gentle. “You’re no use dead.”

“Funerals are the worst,” Elgie nodded, not really looking at him. “But reunions…those aren’t half bad.”

Maisy suddenly sniffled. “Yeah. Not often but y’know…every once in a while.”

“On holidays,” Elgie said softly.

“On holidays,” Maisy agreed.

Aea burst into tears. Sighing, Elgie wrapped an arm around her, while Maisy just wiped her own nose. Din, standing in the midst of it all, didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Well, off you go.” Maisy nodded towards the ship, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. “Y’don’t wanna be late.”

Din didn’t bother telling her there was no sense of time in space.

Nevertheless, he offered her a curt nod and started up the landing, forcing the weight of sorrow down and out. _They couldn’t stay._

Still, Din found himself stopping to turn around. “Thank you.”

If the words came out choked, Din pretended not to notice.

What he couldn’t forget, though, was the tears that filled the sisters’ eyes as they nodded in response, drawing close to each other. Swallowing, Din hit the button to close the hatch and the landing retracted, closing on the three women as they waved him goodbye.

~*~

Din had almost forgotten how monotonous space travel could be — the way time worked differently, felt slower, almost non-existent.

Planetary times, as varied as they were, had a way of grounding him — the perks of gravity. He had some form of measurement to count his moments and schedule the day’s activities. In space, though, Din was adrift with only the promised-reward of his bounties to keep him focused, but now that the kid was in his care, he couldn’t just fly from planet to planet. So, most of their time was spent drifting through space, burning fuel.

Still, Din was determined to adjust; he’d have to if he wanted to keep the child safe. Besides, he was used to this life. He wasn’t worried about acclimating.

It was the kid he was worried about.

They hadn’t been in space long before the child had started getting restless — wandering out of his carrier and into the miscellaneous room, or climbing into a spare box, or roaming _anywhere really._ It didn’t really seem to matter where the kid ended up; he just wanted out of his carrier.

Din wasn’t an idiot. He knew the ship was no Dantooine; it didn’t have the planet’s open space, warm air, and rolling hills. Still, they had to keep moving for the kid’s sake.

So, Din had tried unscrewing the bulb on the steering handle or giving the kid a set of knobs to play with, but the trinkets only entertained the child for so long. After a while, the kid would huff and abandon the bobbles altogether, back to wandering again.

But today — today was _different._

Though the kid did climb out of his carrier, he didn’t roam anywhere. He barely even glanced at the steering bulb neither did he try to mess with any of the control switches. Instead, the child plopped down on one of the E-ject grates and just sat in silence, sniffling.

After the up-teenth sniffle, Din switched the ship to autopilot and whirled around in his chair. “What’s wrong?”

The child’s ears drooped and he whined, sounding pitiful.

Din sighed. “I know you don’t like it here.”

The kid sniffled and hung his head.

“What about food?” Din asked, sounding more exhausted then he’d meant to. “Are you hungry?”

The child didn’t even look up.

Another tired sigh escaped Din’s lips as he watched the kid trace the grate with his fingernails. Din knew the child was miserable, but what else could he do? They wouldn’t be stopping for fuel and supplies for a while. This was their home, at least for now.

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” Din called softly. The kid’s ears perked up and he finally looked up, eyes still sad. “ _Olar_.”

The child tilted his head, chirping low under his breath.

Din made a beckoning motion with his hands. “ _Olar_.”

 _Come._ Sniffling, the kid steadied his hands on the grates and toddled to his feet. He hung his head, ears low, as he waddled over to Din.

“ _Me'copaani?_ What do you want, hm?” Din asked as he settled the child on his lap. He spun back around in the chair and unscrewed the steering knob. “This?”

The child barely even glanced at the bulb. Instead, he cuddled up to Din’s stomach and buried his face in the fabric. _Oh,_ Din realized as the kid grabbed a fistful of his under armor. _So, the kid was just clingy._

It still mystified him how quickly the child’s moods could change. Rarely ever were they steady. One minute the kid could be chirping contentedly, raising hell around the ship, and the next he could be sullen and weepy.

_Looks like this was one of the latter._

Din dropped the steering bulb on the floor and sighed.

“Alright,” he said, wrapping his arms loosely around the child’s body. The kid whined in response and shimmied his body up, digging an elbow into Din’s side in the process.

Din grimaced and shifted the kid, mumbling under his breath. “ _Gar ven ga’buir_ _dini’la_. _Gar buir nu’jate_.”

And now, he was starting to sound like his old buir. _You’re going to drive your father insane,_ the old man used to say to him. Din was a handful, sure, but nothing like the kid. Between the mood swings, cries for food (even after he’d eaten an hour before), and the kid’s need to be held, cuddled, or rocked (depending on the day), Din doubted he’d even make it to fifty — and even that was pushing it. _Maybe forty-five._

The child leaned back and his brows furrowed together. “Boo…auh?”

Din blinked. “What?”

“Bo…Bah,” the kid repeated.

Din frowned as the child pursed his lips, clearly struggling to communicate whatever-the-hell-it-was he was trying to say.

“Boooo,” the child crooned, blinking up at Din as he concentrated. “Booee…”

And — _Oh._ Oh.

Realization hit Din between the eyes.

“You mean _buir_.”

“Buh!” The child’s ears shot up and he bounced on Din’s lap. “Boo buh!”

“No,” Din corrected, shaking his head. He pointed to himself. “Boo-eer. _Buir_.”

The child’s eyes rounded into saucers, flickering down to where Din’s mouth should be.

“Boo buh.”

Din ran a hand down his helmet. “Listen, kid—”

The child blinked up at him, looking so stupidly innocent Din just felt all the fight roll out of him.

“Ah, what the hell…” Din sighed, giving up. “Fine.”

Making sure the kid was snug against his stomach, Din whirled back around and flicked off the autopilot.

The ship rattled, knocking into a cluster of crystal rocks — the tailings of an ice giant. They were passing through the outer reaches, nearing the cold planets. The temperature gauge flashed red and Din turned up the regulator, feeling a frigid chill creep into the ship. The child whined and snuggled into him.

Suddenly, the telecomm whirred, flashing red. Din flicked on the system and Cara’s blue holoform blinked back at him.

“Damn, I guess you’re still alive.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Din replied, setting the ship to cruise-control.

She snorted.“You’ve been offline for a while.”

“I’ve been…preoccupied.”

Her holoform blinked out. When the image reappeared, she was giving him a look. “So, you took a vacation.”

“No.”

She waited, clearly expecting him to say more. Din just switched on the deflectors.

“Well,” Cara rolled out, folding her arms. “While you were ‘preoccupied,’ we found something.”

Din’s hand froze over the anti-frost. “What is it?”

“A lead, maybe.” She sighed, sitting down. “Karga knows a guy who knows a guy…”

_Which meant nothing but trouble._

“…some Rodian called Tsarl Plenx who dabbles in trans-galactic trade. Supposedly, the bug picked up a map in sector 12.”

A buzz of static ran through Cara’s holoform, making her expression unreadable.

“Meaning what?” Din said.

Cara didn’t say anything for a while. “It’s said to disclose the location of a Jedi Temple.”

Din leaned back in his chair, stunned. _The group of enemy warriors._ So, there was a map that could lead him to them? The revelation should have thrilled him, but Din felt a strange unease. He’d figured information about the Jedis’ whereabouts would arise sooner or later, but if he was honest, Din had assumed he’d find out later. _Not now._

This was his mission, though. The reason Din was scouring the galaxy. He needed to return the kid to his people. And yet — Din still felt a lump in his throat as he glanced down at the child. The kid was snuggled up against his abdomen, eyes soft and content, as he suckled lazily on the mythosaur skull. Despite himself, Din stroked the child’s head, the short hairs prickling his fingertips.

He couldn’t turn away such information — not when it was the kid’s best bet.

Din swallowed and said, “Where is it?”

“You’re not gonna like it,” Cara breathed out.

“Try me.”

She raised a brow, but still conceded. “Nal Hutta.”

Din started. _That scum hole?_

“No.”

The refusal came out before Din could even think about it. He didn’t need to. Nal Hutta was called The Underworld for a reason. Crime lords, slave traders, cartels, and syndicates swarmed the planet, breeding a corruption that made the mercenaries on Nevarro look like petty thieves. It was the filth of the galaxy. There was no way in hell he was taking the kid there.

Cara smirked. “I told you so.”

“Who else does Karga know? There’s got to be other options,” Din grunted as the kid struggled out of his arms and dropped to the floor.

He watched as the child waddled over to the corner, reaching for the steering knob that had rolled across the room. The kid plopped on the ground and began to suck on the bulb.

“There are none,” Cara said, drawing Din’s attention back to her holoform. “We’ve been keeping our ears to the ground, but you know how it is. Everyone’s real hush hush.”

Din scowled. He knew the hunters on Nevarro wouldn’t be quick to disclose lucrative information, but that wasn’t about to keep him from considering alternative solutions.

Cara sighed and murmured, “It’s an opportunity.”

“It’s suicide,” Din shot back. “They’ll kill the kid before we even step foot on the planet. Besides, it’ll take time to find the Rodian.”

“No, it won’t.” She leaned in, tapping on something in front of her. “We have the bug’s coordinates. All you have to do is follow the tracker, grab the map, and get outta there.”

Din sighed. _No way would it be that easy. Not on Nal Hutta._

“It’s all we’ve got,” Cara breathed, interrupting his thoughts. “You won’t find the kid’s people without it.”

 _True, but he still didn’t have to like it._ The mission was too dangerous, too risky. One look at the kid and the mercenaries would be on Din like wolves to a carcass.

And yet — Without the map, they’d continue to wander the galaxy with no way of knowing how to find the child’s kind. They’d be stuck jumping from planet to planet, wasting fuel and resources. Besides, with the bounty on his head, there was no way Din could make money — at least for now. As much as Din hated to admit it, he needed that map.

“Send me the coordinates.”

Cara nodded. “I’ll tell Karga to comm the bug. Just watch your back.”

Din grunted and switched off the telecomm.

 _Well, great._ He spun around in the chair and kicked his feet out, thinking. So, they were flying to the Glorious Jewel of the galaxy? Leave it to the Hutts to call such a hideous planet something so positive. Din didn’t frequent the Y’Toub system often (the few times were to retrieve bounties) but when he did, he rarely stayed long. Crime was an economy there, making almost every buyer and seller an outlaw.

As much as he hated the thought, Din would have to take the kid with him. No way could he leave the child on the ship — not when scrappers could break in. It’d be dangerous but Din would have to take his chances.

Sighing, Din stood to his feet and glanced at the corner. Only the steering bulb stared back at him, rolling against the metal wall.

 _Odd._ Frowning, Din spun in a circle, searching the cockpit.

No sign of the child.

He left the cockpit and stepped into the short hall. Other than the soft whir from the engine, only silence greeted him. Frowning, Din peered into the misc. room and, finding that empty too, stepped down the ladder to the lower level. The space was quiet — too quiet. _That was never a good sign._

“Hey, kid.” Din made a beeline to one of the sideboards — _the kid was always messing around in there_ — but when he opened the cabinets, only untouched shelves stared back at him. _Damn._

Out of the corner of his eye, Din saw a flash of green. He turned just in time to see the child waddle behind a corner.

Din breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright, come on out.”

He turned the corner and —

Found himself staring at a wall. The kid nowhere to be seen.

Din swiveled back around, this time catching the child as he ran behind one of the support beams. Din huffed and followed the little imp.

“What are you—”

“Ah!” The kid shrieked when Din caught sight of him. Giggling, he waddled between Din’s legs and raced behind another support.

Din sighed as he watched a green ear disappear behind the beam. _He was getting too old for this._

“Alright, kid. Come out.”

He looked behind the adjacent support. Again, the kid squealed and took off, running behind another wall.

 _What the hell?_ Din had been around the kid long enough to know that some of the things the child did made no sense. The kid was just plain weird, so Din had stopped trying to figure him out long ago.

What he wanted to know now was _why_ the sudden behavior? The kid was giggling and running from him like this was some kind of—

Din stilled. _Game._

To test his theory, Din peered behind the wall again. The child, as he’d expected, screeched and waddling around a set of broken guns.

First of all — _Unsafe_ (he really needed to lock those up). Second — it looked like Din _had_ stumbled upon a game of sorts. Well, this was…interesting.

“Are you in here?” Din purposely avoided the weaponry, pretending to look behind another wall.

To his left, Din heard a muffled chirp.

He smirked and leaned away from the wall. “No…I don’t see you.”

Din banged on one of the lockers — a diversion — and as he expected, the child edged away from the sound, sliding out from the broken weaponry. Din slowed his footsteps as he neared the kid. With each step, the child’s giggles grew.

Din rounded the weaponry. Instantly, the kid shot out from the side, chirping as he skirted away from Din and heaved himself into his sleeping compartment. The door sealed down behind him and Din just sighed.

_He was going to have to teach the kid how to hide better._

A strange anticipation thrummed in Din’s veins as he inched towards the compartment. It felt like the adrenaline of a chase, but Din wasn’t in the throes of battle. He was just playing a game.

He hit the release button. The child screeched as the door flew up, covering his eyes.

Din leaned into the compartment, smiling. “Looks like I found you.”

“Boo!” The kid exclaimed, hands flying off his eyes and into the air.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Din deadpanned.

Ears turning, the child ran into him and grabbed onto Din’s under armor.

“I get it. You’re a real warrior,” Din smirked as the kid growled into the material, fisting the under armor.

Din was unsure whether the child was trying to tussle with him or just intimidate him. Regardless, it felt more like the kid was hugging him than fighting him.

“How about we call a truce? Clearly, we know who the winner is.”

The kid stopped wrestling the underarmor, now ogling his reflection through the armor. “Ooo.”

 _Vain little bug._ “Yeah, that’s you. Now, let’s get you out of here.”

Din scooped him up, earning a contented chirp from the kid, and deposited him back onto the floor. Without hesitation, the kid grabbed onto Din’s pant leg. He glanced back at the support beams and then, looked back at Din. Then, eyed the beams again.

Din glanced between them. _Hell no._

“We’re not playing again.”

The child’s ears drooped.

“No.” Din refused to give in. “We’re going back to the cockpit.”

“Boo buh,” the kid whined, grabbing onto Din’s boot and looking up at him, eyes round.

Din folded his arms. “You’ve played long enough.”

The child’s lower lip wobbled and he sniffled, whimpering.

A sniffle with no tears meant nothing. Din might have fallen for the kid’s manipulation before, but not this time. He wasn’t about to be conned by a baby.

“Come on.” Din turned on his heel and headed for the ladder.

Behind him, the kid sniffled. Then — sniffled again.

And again.

And Din, stars damn him, should have been mortified by how easily he gave in. “Fine.”

The kid chirped, ears flying back up, as Din walked back towards him. _Just this once,_ he settled even as all the reasons _not_ to play scrolled through his mind. _One more game wouldn’t harm anybody._

“But this time, you have to be quiet,” Din said when he reached the kid. He crouched down, eye-level now. “Don’t pick your sleeping courters either. You’re supposed to be hard to find.”

The kid chirped and began heaving himself up to the compartment.

Din peeled the kid off the ledge and set him on the ground. “I said don’t hide there.” The child’s ears twitched, turning in a way that Din recognized as confusion.

“If someone is seeking you, you identify your escape routes and _then_ , choose a location to hide in,” Din instructed. “You don’t want to get cornered.”

The child inched toward the compartment.

Din grabbed him before his claws could even scratch the metal. “What did I just say?”

The kid’s ears wilted. “Buh.”

“I know you like hiding there, but it’s not a good spot. There are plenty of other places.” Din surveyed the area, picking out the number of nooks and cavities in between pieces of equipment.

“Consider this a practice in skill and vigilance. You are a Mandalorian now. Stealth and ingenuity are in your blood.” Din stood to his feet. “Now, let’s try again.”

And the kid, looking incredibly resolved and determined to please, started for the damn compartment again.

~*~

_Didn’t think it could get any uglier._

The thought soured Din’s thoughts as he navigated the ship towards the ringed planet. Nal Hutta never failed to disappoint. The noxious planet looked like a rotten egg that had boiled itself twice over and molded — just for good measure.

Din scowled as he navigated the Crest around Hutta’s moon, otherwise known as Little Slugland. The name was fitting, all things considered. With the urban sprawl, congested and polluted cities, and a stink that could kill (and he meant that, literally), Din was never interested in visiting.

Greasy rain dribbled down the windshield as Din steered the ship east, entering into the smoggy atmosphere.

“Ah,” the child cooed behind him, big eyes ogling the slime slithering down the glass.

Din turned on the suction, draining the acidic rain. “It’s not as pretty as it looks, I promise you.”

Nevertheless, the kid still ooo’ed from the carrier and reached for an oil stain now plastered to the windshield. Glimmers of light flashed through the rain and a number of signs and billboards materialized through the clouds.

Din readied the feet for landing when they flew over the city and entered the boglands. Steam wafted up from the brown swamp area, curling around the Crest as Din lowered the ship onto the grass. He flicked off the hyperdrive and the engines hummed, powering down.

 _Well, they’d arrived._ Yet, somehow, Din still found himself plastered to the chair, grimacing at the swamp that sprawled before them, belching toxic fumes.

Normally, he could care less about the conditions of a planet like Nal Hutta; neither did he pay much attention to the debauchery and illegal activity. Such crime was everywhere in the Outer Rim, infecting major cities and ports. It was as normal as breathing. _And yet..._ This time, Din felt strangely on edge, feeling both pissed and uneasy all at once.

During the trip, he found himself stocking and re-stocking his weaponry whenever time permitted. He had clipped three more explosives to his belt, scanned his grappling line for any knots, and cleaned his blaster — four times.

He was equipped to handle any mercenary that might try to disturb them. Thus, no need to be anxious. He’d visited planets far worse than Nal Hutta. They’d be fine.

But then, he’d glance at the kid, suckling sleepily on another knob he’d managed to unscrew, and suddenly Din was polishing his rifle all over again.

A tug on his pant leg pulled Din out of his thoughts and he peered down, finding a pair of big black eyes staring up at him.

“Boo buh,” the child murmured with an inquiring look.

Din leaned up from the chair, eying the kid’s hands fisted together. “What’ve you got there?”

Shyly, the kid held out the steering knob. “Buh.”

“That’s nice,” Din breathed.

“Buh!” The child keened insistently, glancing between Din and the knob.

 _Oh._ Din eyed the steel bulb. “Is that for me?”

The kid bounced on his heels as he waved the knob. “Buh!”

A weak smile pulled at Din’s lips, tempting the tension away for even a moment. Then, just as soon as it began to melt away, a low beep from the navigation drew him back.

Scooping up the kid, Din spun the chair around only to find a notification flashing back at him on the monitor. He expanded the message and a blue map hovered over the screen, revealing rows of dilapidated buildings collapsed almost on top of each other.

Nal Hutta. _So, these were the coordinates._

A red dot blinked back at him, sandwiched between two auction houses and positioned in the last place Din wanted to visit with the kid in tow.

_Great. The bug was in Ga Bool._

Din swiped the coordinates away before he could comm Cara and tell her exactly what he thought about bringing a kid with a bounty on his head to the seediest bar in the galaxy. He tapped the secondary message and a hologram of a Rodian burst from the screen.

 _So, this was Tsarl Plenx?_ Din scowled as he took in the diamond-shaped symbol shimmering around the creature’s neck. _He was in the Pyke Syndicate?_ Odd. What was a spice-trader doing with a map to the Jedi? The creature’s sardonic face sneered back at him and Din didn’t even have to imagine _how_ the Rodian had gotten his hands on the piece of paper.

Flicking the hologram away, Din stood and set the kid down on the seat. He swiped his rifle off the wall and secured it to his back.

“Boo buh.” The child held out his arms, keening for him.

“One second,” Din comforted, briefly stepping into the misc. room. He scanned the walls and the shelves, then the boxes. _Where did she say she put it?_

“Buh…” The kid whined from the cockpit, sounding desperate now.

“I’m coming,” Din called back, cursing himself under his breath as he surveyed the area. _Where was it?_

Din circled around, eyes trailing the convection oven and past the table— _Ah._

A leather satchel peeked out from under the table. Din emptied the contents of porcelain glassware and utensils — _leave it to Aea to give him dishes he could easily break—_ just as the kid cried for him again.

With the empty satchel in hand, Din walked back into the cockpit.

“See? I’m here,” Din breathed, kneeling down before the kid.

“Boo buh,” the child crooned, bumping his forehead against Din’s helmet.

“I know,” Din soothed as he slid the satchel from around him. _The kid wasn’t going to like this._ “We have to leave the ship and it’s dangerous out there. So, I need to put you in here.”

The kid peered down at the satchel, ears twitching. Din couldn’t risk waiting for a response. Carefully, he picked the child up and lowered him inside.

The kid just blinked up at him. No whimpers.

It was only when Din started to cover the satchel with the flap-lid did the kid start to whine.

“I can’t let them see you,” Din breathed as the child started to squirm in the bag.

He lifted the flap and, once again, the child whined, beginning to claw out of the satchel.

“ _Ad’ika_ —”

“Boo…” The child whimpered, shaking his head and Din swore as tears started to fill the kid’s eyes.

Din sighed. _They really couldn’t do this right now._ He doubted it’d be long before the Rodian’s location moved, which would make it near impossible for Din to track him — not without a phob.

“Here, how about this?”

Din lifted the flap and, just before the kid could cry out, tucked the lid to the side, opening up a small hole for the child to see. A low chirp sounded from within the satchel and Din, thank the stars, had his answer.

“It’s only for a little bit,” he soothed, looping his arms through the straps of the satchel and settling the bag around his middle.

A warm lump nestled itself against the dip of his abdomen and Din fought the urge to grimace, feeling an elbow dig into his muscle. He readjusted the straps, trying as much as he could to keep the kid settled.

Surveying the cockpit one last time, Din stepped out of area and towards the hatch. He set his stopwatch. _No longer than two hours. In and out._

He released the hatch and the landing unfurled before him, filling the ship with the stench of pollution and the clamor of the markets. Somewhere, he heard a bloodcurdling scream.

Din drew the satchel against him and murmured, “Stay close to me.”

Din arrived at the bar within the hour, late but in one piece.

It had taken him longer than he’d had expected to get to _Ga Bool_. He’d forgotten how congested the streets of Nal Hutta were, coursing with hunters and thieves like a virus. The activity — hagglings from down-and-outers, coaxing merchants that circled around him, and noise so-loud Din couldn’t even hear his own thoughts — thrummed everywhere. Leering glances, weighing the cost of beskar coating his body, had followed him and Din had had to slow his steps, shifting his stance so he appeared unhurried. A wrong move —too anxious or too confident— and they’d mob him, easily.

Suffice to say, the activity had slowed him down.

A trip through a set of hidden recess columns led him to the same building he’d seen in the hologram. True to form, the clamor of the surrounding auction houses roared in his ears. Grimacing, Din banged on the door and instantly, the stone slid open, sealing behind him when he stepped inside.

Empty tables, built into the stone-walls, greeted him. Abandoned glasses rolled along the ground, staining the dirt with alcohol. Though soft music droned in the background, there wasn’t a creature to be seen. _Bar? More like a ghost town._ A quick glance at the bar table and Din found even the bartender had gone missing.

 _Interesting._ Din stalked forward, grimacing as the smell of dung assaulted his nostrils. He stepped around a bar stool, careful to avoid the array of bullet canisters sprawled along the floor. _Clearly, someone had wanted to clear out the bar quick._

The satchel rustled against his stomach, a low chirp vibrating from within.

Din stilled and rested a hand on the pack. “Just a little while longer.”

A warm lump rubbed against Din’s palm in response, snuggling into his touch.

Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps. In an instant, Din whipped out his blaster. Three Rodians —one green-skinned, the other two purple— stepped around the bartender table. Without hesitating, the green creature stepped forward.

“Greef Karga said you were coming.”

Din’s eyes flickered to the golden symbol around the creature’s neck. “What else did he say?”

“That I have something you want,” Tsarl purred in Rodese, taking steps toward him. His eyes flickered down to the satchel and unconsciously, Din tightened his grip around the gun.

Tsarl’s eyes glinted. “Come. Let us discuss business, shall we?”

He nodded to one of the Rodian’s and the creature slinked around the bar table, pulling out a pair of tin cups.

“Your people drink _tihaar_ , do they not?” Tsarl asked as the Rodian behind the table pulled out a flask of clear liquid. “I make it a point to entertain my clients’ tastes. A sign of benevolence, if you will.”

Din highly doubted that. A few minutes in and benevolent was not the first word he’d assign to the trader. If he knew Karga, the creature had to be cunning.

Tsarl flicked a hand at the other Rodian just as he slipped into one of the empty booths. Din eyed the purple creature, watching as it moved to stand near the door.

“Mando.” The trader inclined his hand to the opposite seat.

Din eyed the Rodian guarding the door once more before pocketing his blaster and walking towards the table. He unclasped his rifle and sat, setting the weapon on the stone table. A pair of tin cups slid onto the table and the other Rodian stepping back to stand an ear-shot away.

Tsarl folded his suction-tipped fingers together. “I’ve never seen a Mandalorian up close. Everyone knows the legends, of course.”

Din, still keeping one eye on the creature poised behind the trader, said nothing.

“I’d assumed your people had had enough of bloodshed. One can never be too careful when on the brink of extinction, but I guess your people would know that better than most, wouldn’t they?” Tsarl asked innocently, but Din wasn’t fooled. The comment was meant to provoke him.

“You desire the map to lead you to the Jedis?”

“Yes.”

Tsarl rested back against the booth. “What will you give me in return?”

“I can reward you handsomely,” Din responded.

The trader’s snout scrunched, making a hooting sound, and it struck Din that the creature was laughing.

“I don’t want your money,” Tsarl trilled, leaning in to the table. “I desire something more…lucrative.”

“What is more lucrative than money?” Din replied, almost jolting as the satchel started to move against him.

Under the table, he brushed his fingers against the bag, willing the kid to still.

Tsarl surveyed him, pupil-less eyes roving along Din’s armor. “Your beskar—”

“—is not up for grabs,” Din interrupted, gritting his teeth as he heard a low whine from the satchel.

The trader, eyes still fixed to the armor, didn’t appear to have heard. “You do want the map, yes?”

 _He did, but—_ “The armor isn’t an option,” Din settled, raising his voice over the whines as they rumbled against his stomach. “There must be something else.”

“Unless you have—”

A muffled cry cut him off. Din swore, watching as the trader’s eyes darted down to the wriggling satchel. Dull wails rose from the bag, and the Rodian behind Tsarl pulled out a blaster. _Shit._ Before Din could devise an explanation, the kid’s head popped out through the hole.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

Instinctively, Din moved back but found himself pinned against the booth.

The kid whined, writhing against the satchel as he struggled to get the rest of his body out. “Ah!”

Tsarl’s eyes widened. “And it speaks!”

“Boo,” the child whimpered, managing to wrestle an arm out through the hole and reach for Din.

With no other options, Din untied the flap and pulled the child out, keeping his eyes fixed on the Rodian guarding the exit and the one behind Tsarl. Both had their guns fixed on the kid now.

_Dammit._

“Would you look at that?” Tsarl murmured, leaning in as the kid settled onto his lap, suckling on the mythosaur skull.

 _This was bad._ In the back of his mind, Din realized his hands were shaking. His heart raced in his chest as he glanced at the two Rodians, noticing that they’d moved closer now. Interested.

The child whined and rolled over, attempting to crawl up Din’s stomach. “Boo…”

“Stop,” Din muttered under his breath, but the trader heard him.

Tsarl hooted in laughter. “The little creature seems quite taken with you, Mando.”

The trader’s eyes glinted, a certain eagerness shrouding his face, as he watched the kid’s every move.

Din recognized that look. “He’s off the table.”

“You asked for the map.” He shot back without even looking at Din, still gazing at the kid.

 _Get out of here now._ The situation was too volatile. Though he could take all three of the Rodians if he had to, Din couldn’t count on escaping back onto the streets of Nal Hutta. The crowds would pounce on him without a hesitation. They’d do anything but shield him.

Shooting his way out of the bar wasn’t an option.

Shoving the kid back in the bag, Din cinched the flap and stood, looping the satchel around his shoulders. “I will return with something more promising.”

“But the creature—”

“I will bring you something better,” Din ground out, eying the opposing Rodians inching toward him. _Shit._

The one behind Tsarl took a step closer and Din whipped out his rifle. “Try it.”

Tsarl held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please. Lower your weapons.” He glanced toward the other Rodians. “The Mandalorian has made his choice. We _respect_ the refusal of our clients, do we not?”

Slowly, the creatures lowered their weapons. Din wasn’t stupid enough to lower his.

Tsarl turned to him. “You are free to leave of your own volition, Mando. We are not charlatans.”

Still, Din didn’t trust the Rodian enough to put away his rifle. He stepped slowly towards the door and, without turning, banged on the stone. The door slid open.

“I will return with your payment.”

Tsarl’s eyes gleamed, squinting together, as the other two Rodians stood behind him. “I do not doubt you will.”

~*~

The child was near screaming by the time they returned to the Crest.

Thankfully, the clamor of the market had drowned out the kid’s wails, but unfortunately the activity wasn’t loud enough to quiet Din’s racing heart.

 _That was too close._ The thought turned over in his mind, repeating itself, as he released the hatch to the ship. He didn’t trust the Rodian trader. The fact that they’d made it back to the ship, Din knew, was not because of the goodwill of Tsarl. _Something felt off about the Rodian._

Muffled cries shrilled from the satchel, snatching Din out of his thoughts and turning his attention to the writhing satchel pressed against him. Sighing, Din unclasped the flap and the kid’s tear-stained face immediately appeared.

“Bo…Boo,” the child blubbered, fisting his eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Din breathed, cradling the bag between his arms as he walked up the landing.

The kid sniffled and rubbed his face against Din’s helmet.

“You did well, _ad’ika,_ ” Din soothed, wiping the child’s cheeks.

The kid only hiccuped in response, struggling to catch his breath as they entered the lower level of the ship. Din set the satchel on the floor and hit the button to close the hatch.

The landing released a squeal as it curled in on itself, shutting out the fumes from the swamplands and enclosing them within the familiar shadow of the ship.

“Uh,” the child babbled, wobbling out from the satchel.

Din smiled weakly as he watched the kid stumble and grab onto his pant leg to steady himself.

“It’s been a long day,” Din breathed. “How about one of Aea’s cookies? You always seem to like thos—”

He cut off, only now hearing — nothing. _No beeping._ He inclined his head towards the ceiling. He didn’t hear any of the familiar hums from the ship’s cockpit either. The hairs on the back of Din’s neck stood up and he turned back around, surveying.

Nothing appeared out of order. The weapons console was fully stocked. Lockers bolted. Maps ordered. Floors clea—

Din froze and swiveled back, eyes sweeping the floor. Scratches, faint but distinct, indented the metal. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in, peering down. He’d left a few scrapes on the floor in the past, but they’d mostly faded by now. These looked fresh. Recent. They were consistent in size, running in three’s like—

Claws _. Footprints._

Above, he heard the grates whine, pressed down by a weight, and Din felt his blood chill. There was silence. Then another whine, almost masked by the gurgles from the bog outside. Almost.

_Shit._

“We’re gonna play a game, okay?” Din knelt down in front of the kid.

The child covered his eyes and gurgled. “Boo?”

“Yeah, boo,” Din nodded, eyes flying to the ceiling as he heard the metal creak. Six yards left. _They were in the miscellaneous room._ It wouldn’t be long before they discovered the drop-down ladder. At most, Din had a minute. Possibly even seconds.

“You go hide,” Din urged gently, even as he slipped two knives from his thighs and hid them behind his back.

 _It’d be messy this way._ A blaster would’ve been cleaner, easier, _clinical_ , but he couldn’t risk blowing a hole in his own damn ship.

A groan from the ceiling forced the words out of Din’s lips, hurried. “I’ll come find you.”

“Ah?” The kid covered his mouth.

“Yeah, be as quiet as you can,” Din affirmed. The lid above them squealed. _He was out of time._ “Go.”

The child bounced on his feet and waddled away, disappearing behind a wall.

Din slipped around a corner just as a set of boots hit the metal bars, descending. _That’s one,_ Din counted as he heard feet hit the landing. _Three. A fourth was coming._ Beneath the helmet, a bead of sweat ran down Din’s temple as he adjusted the blades in his hands.

 _Make it quick._ He’d have no more than ten minutes before the kid got antsy. Before the child realized this wasn’t actually a game at all.

The last set of feet barely hit the ground before Din flung both knives, angling left. He heard a sharp intake of breath and the thud of deadweight. In an instant, he sprang from the wall.

A glint of silver found him first and Din careened back, missing the scim by a hair. The sword scraped against the wall, sending an earsplitting screech through the room. A hiss shrilled in his ear and Din whipped out his blaster, shooting a hole in one of the lockers. _Dammit._ And this is why he’d said no guns.

The assailants flew back and Din found himself face-to-face with a Geonosian and a purring Zygerrian. _So, an overgrown insect and a cat. Fantastic._

Swiping the scim through the air, the Geo charged at him. Din darted right and rammed the insect’s skull into the toilet. The Geo’s wings spazzed, going still, just as the feline jumped on Din’s shoulders. He grunted as the Zygerrian clawed at his under armor, ripping the material in tuffs.

“Well, hello there,” the feline cooed as its claws flayed the back of Din’s neck. He bit back a cry as he felt blood trail down his spine. “Now, don’t be selfish, darling. Be a good pet and show us the child.”

Din snatched the Zygerrian’s arm and threw the cat to the floor. He fired his blaster just as it shimmed out from under him and danced away.

“ _My my,_ aren’t you a handsome thing?” The Zygerrian purred as it landed a few feet away from him, chin jutting out.

 _No spurs on the jaw,_ Din noted. So, it was a she _._

 _She_ pounced, a long knife appearing in her hand so quick Din mistook it for another claw. He dodged, but she was already slicing up, sideways, backing him up against the wall. Her movements were quick enough to blur.

 _Get off the defensive._ She swiped, and Din angled under her arm, spewing fire from his flamethrower. The flames barely licked her fur as she flipped away, landing in a crouch on the bench.

“Unfortunately, we’re not here for you, sugar.” Something glinted, whistling towards him, and Din ducked. A dagger jut out from the wall, wobbling. “But boy oh’ boy, would you sell for a pretty penny.”

She threw another knife, but Din was prepared this time. He caught the dagger and hurled it back, slicing the feline’s cheek.

The Zygerrian hissed as blood seeped into her fur. The playfulness all but bled out of her face, leaving nothing but pure rage. _Good._ Din wasn’t one for small talk anyway.

He snatched the knife out of the wall just as she lunged. He slid to the ground, sending a casing of old parts spiraling. Her paws hit the floor and Din, in one quick movement, sliced her ankles.

Blood spewed out, spilling onto the floor as she toppled to the ground. Din refused to give her a second to react. He kicked out, sending her body hurtling against the wall. Her head slammed against the wall and Din shot at a locker above her. It whined, splintering, before crashing down on top of her.

Din stumbled to his feet, heart racing, as he eyed the heap of sparking metal. No sign of movement. The two other mercenaries lay sprawled near the ladder, wading in a pool of blood. He almost relaxed when a buzz churred behind him.

 _Shit._ He whirled around, barely blocking the Geo’s scim with his vambrace. _Since when did he turn his back on an opponent?_ The Geo’s pinchers rattled as the creature drove the sword harder into Din’s armor. The vambrace gave, beginning to crack. Din grimaced, already searching for a way to get the scim away from the creature.

Somewhere, Din heard an inquisitive chirp and a shuffle. _Dammit._ He’d forgotten he was supposed to be playing the game.

Din slammed the Geo against a wall, scim clattering to the floor.

Breathing heavily, he called out, “Are…Are you in here?”

A low babbling responded back and Din’s eyes flickered to the sealed compartment on his right. _Not again._ He thrust his elbow into the insect’s sternum to mask the kid’s voice. “Nope. You’re…not in here.”

The insect screeched, wings fluttering against the wall. Din barely had time to throw up his hands before the Geo flew at him, knocking him to the ground.

Blood spilled into his mouth as the insect shrieked, drawing out a smaller scim. Din twisted, intending to knock the knife out the pest’s hand, when he found himself stuck. _Damn._ His blaster was trapped. Grunting, Din lifted his leg and kicked at the creature’s spine. The Geo rose off him by an inch. Immediately, Din angled his blaster and fired.

The pest collapsed on top of him with a hiss, wings going still. Din grimaced as he felt cold blood seep into his under armor, pasting the fabric to his skin. _Disgusting._

Kicking the insect off of him, Din sat up and struggled to catch his breath. He swept the area, eying the dead bodies, spatters of blood and gunk, and the disordered mess that was now his ship. Din didn’t even want to think about the clean up.

He staggered to his feet and stepped over the Geo’s smoking corpse. The smell of scorched flesh burned his nose. He grimaced and nudged the creature onto its back. A tracking phob blinked from the Geo’s belt. Din, watching the phob flash red, felt a gloomy emotion settle over his nerves.

He’d known that bringing the kid to Nal Hutta would elicit trouble. Hunters were bound to come, so their appearance wasn’t a surprise. It was their timing that surprised Din. _They’d found the child too quickly._ The thought alone both worried and unsettled him. It wouldn’t be long before more hunters tracked them. Din needed to find a way to get the map and soon. _Or else…_

Scowling, Din crushed the device under his boot, cutting off the beeping noise. He kicked the pieces away and limped towards the compartment, avoiding the mess on the floor. He hit the release button near the chamber and the door shot up.

“Boo!” The kid shouted, erupting into a giggling fit.

“Yeah.” Din smiled weakly, scooping the child up, despite the ache in his body.“I found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Psych Corner with Din (with a bonus section - 'Psych Corner with Baby')
> 
> As usual, grab your hot tea/hot chocolate and let's get cozy with some psychology because this is SUPER long. If you manage to read all of it, God bless you. You're a saint.
> 
> In every story, a character has some goal that’s motivating them throughout the storyline. What’s fascinating about Disney+’s The Mandalorian is that Din’s ‘hero’s journey’ is constantly shifting and as such, so are his desires. At first, Din is motivated by base needs (Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs) such as: food, fuel for the ship, security, etc. Basically, he’s just trying to survive. However, the introduction of the child literally reshapes and changes his desires and motivations. Now, as a side note, Din’s morality is insanely grey and his understanding of ‘what’s right’ in a situation changes based on the situation, rather than a strictly moral code. Thus, Din doesn’t really bat an eyelash when he breaks the Guild Code. Actually, he first begins to diverge from the Code when he asks the Imperial Client, “What are you going to do with [the child]?” He’s never asked that question before — no one does. Thus, this moment shows us how his moral compass is altering, but alas — I digress.
> 
> In a story, the main protagonist’s desire is almost tied to their greatest fear. For instance, Din clearly loves the child and is attached to him (desire), but he’s also terrified of what he’s feeling. He doesn’t know how to be a father or be attached to anyone. Moreover, before the child, I doubt Din ever had to examine his emotions or desires closely. However, the child’s distress and separation anxiety trigger’s Din’s own anxiety. Now, as many of you have said, Din isn’t emotionally incompetent or dumb. He’s just never needed to assess his internal world. He was raised in a strict warrior culture that focuses on strength and physical capability. The internal values (e.g. courage, bravery, honor) of the Mandalorian system is defined by their physical expressions of said values. In other words, they show what they value, rather than spend time assessing it. Moreover, their values are inextricably tied to their role as warriors. A Mandaloran shows that they are courageous through battle. Thus, Din is extremely action-oriented and active.
> 
> 'Psych Corner with Baby'
> 
> One of the things I realized about the Disney+ series is how often the series showcases fluff between the child and Din. The fluff is so good and needed, but unfortunately, the show fails to portray the difficult realities of adoption, attachment, and development. In the series, the child is a source of innocence and cuteness in, an otherwise, violent context. Though his innocence is endearing and warrants so many heart-eyes from me, I think the child needs more nuance. The babe can eat frogs and throw a fit when Din attempts to leave. He can suck on the metal ball from the ship and have nightmares. He can be Force-sensitive and still operate as a baby would. In other words, all of us —including the cutest of children— are products of complicated stories and live in complicated narratives. Moreover, adoption isn’t as easy as — “here, I have a working ship and some (constantly depleting) money. I can protect you from danger and, since you’re just a baby, you’ll be happy and grow up healthy.” Rather, adoptees have rich and complicated stories that they lived into (and still live into) prior to their adoption. As a writer and psychology nut, I really want to face these realities head on. In Hold Me By the Heart, the child struggles with separation anxiety, abandonment issues, and object permanence. The presence of the issues are not meant to be some weird fetish of sorts or act as entertainment factors for readers. Rather, the kid’s issues are real, present struggles that impact his development. So I really wanted to contrast the child’s innocence with his trauma and, by doing, articulate that both realities CAN exist in one person.


	6. The Hunt (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, apologies, apologies. Thank you all for patiently waiting for Part Two.
> 
> On top of applying to grad school, moving, and the Coronavirus scare, I’ve been slow to write and reply (oh my gosh, I apologize for not responding to many comments). I will respond to comments from the last chapter and this one soon.
> 
> Nevertheless, Part Two is finally here!
> 
> As usual, PsychCorner with Din will be at the bottom — along with a few chapter questions.

“Dammit.”

Din flung the soldering iron onto the table and steadied his hands against the ledge, feeling the wound sear with the dying heat. There was no use trying. Every time he attempted to meld the sliced skin together with the iron, his whole body spasmed, sending shock-waves of pain strong enough to make his knees crumple.

He didn’t need to see the wound to know that the damn cat had nearly flayed the skin off the back of his neck. The wound was deep —based on what he could tell thus far— which made infection a real and possible future if he didn’t tend to it immediately. Hence, his current problem.

Only an idiot would use a soldering iron to fix a laceration wound, but quite frankly, Din didn't have any other options. He'd already depleted his pack of microsutures, memory plastic, and anything else that might have helped him months ago. Besides, he had other pressing matters to attend to.

The mercenaries’ bodies were still sprawled out on the ground, staining _his_ floors with blood that’d take weeks to remove. Scorch marks and holes covered his walls. Two of his lockers had been blasted to hell. Also, thanks to rapid putrefaction, the Geo’s carcass had already started to decompose, releasing an acidic fluid that was currently stinking up his entire ship. And, as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the back of Din’s neck had nearly been lanced by some sadistic cat.

The only proverbial ray of sunshine in the midst of it all was the kid who, thankfully, had fallen asleep over an hour ago. At first, Din had been wary of letting the child out of his sight. His examination of the upper deck of the ship for any other intruders or signs of reinforcements had been spotty at best. So, he’d wanted to keep the kid close.

But then, he had caught the little womp rat ogling himself through the Geo’s scim (all while the sharp edge pointed at the kid’s stomach) and Din concluded that this was not the place for kids. So, he’d put the rugrat down for a nap and planned to seal up the laceration — first, by melding the skin together with the soldering iron and then closing it up by suture.

_If all went according to plan…_

Din dragged the prepped suture towards him and held the needle over the soldering iron until the tip burned red. To say the procedure would hurt would be a nice way to put it, but Din couldn’t risk using any anesthetic — not when the drug could numb his whole neck area. He’d just have to bear it.

Din sucked in a breath and reached around to the back of his neck, fighting the jolt that ran through his body as his fingers brushed against the tender area.

Bracing himself, he dug the needle into his skin.

“Ah, shit—” Din grit his teeth, swallowing the cry that threatened to claw its way out of his throat.

Pain coursed through his body as Din pulled the thread through, the suture slippery and stained red. Blood dribbled down his hand, slicking his fingertips.

Again.

He pushed the needle through the skin, biting his tongue to stifle another cry. A harsh ragged sound irritated his ears and only when Din pulled the suture through did he realize where the noise was coming from. He was groaning.

_Maybe he should take a break._

Just as soon as the suggestion entered his mind, Din squashed it. Thoughts like that were the reason he had to keep going. He couldn’t let himself think or catch his breath. Otherwise, pain would cause him to panic and he’d give in.

 _Breathe in,_ the words echoed in his mind, steely and instructive, but they weren’t his.

He sucked in a breath and the needle broke skin.

“D…Dammit.” He yanked the suture through.

It felt like hell. It felt like a stabbing. Like his first one and Din remembered that.

_Don’t you dare pass out. Pay attention._

Blood dribbled down his spine and suddenly, Din remembered where he’d heard those words before.

He remembered —the blurry silhouette of his sparring partner, the taste of bile on his tongue, piss on his pants, sticky blood _so-much-blood_ staining his young hands, and the steady voice of _Al’Verde_ Dral thrumming in his ear. _Do you feel that? Pain. Embrace it._ _Don’t fight it. It’s just another path to guide you. Let it fuel you._

It was there, in the fighting corps, where Din had learned that nothing —not even pain or fear— earned the right to control him. The loss of control could only be the beginning of dispossession. A sign that Din was losing himself, surrendering to something unworthy.

_There are two kinds of strength in this universe: strength of the body and ner vod, strength of the Will,_ the commander had schooled. _Will carries you even when your body has long since failed you. Master it._

Pain had a way of robbing a person — hijacking one’s whole body, one’s mind, and causing them to panic. He’d been taught then to push through the fear. To become his armor.

_Steel yourself. Let pain fuel you._

Din turned the suture around, brushing the wound with his fingertips. The skin was thicker here. He’d have to force the needle deeper.

He gathered the collar of his underamor into his mouth and bit down. The needle broke through, ripping a cry from his lips only muffled by the cloth.

Again.

Pierce then pull.

Somewhere, in a memory drenched with sweat, scorched clay, and teenage blood — _Again! Strike again!_

Again.

Pierce then pull.

_Get up. You are a Mandalorian. You are no coward. Again._

Again.

Pierce then pull.

Pierce—

The last one was sloppy, barely threading the skin together. In the back of his mind, Din knew he’d pay for the botched job later, but his thoughts felt too far away. Suspended. His hands were shaking. Sweat trailed down his temple, plastering his bangs to his forehead.

“Gr…Great,” Din groused, feeling the suture slip out of his hands. It dangled down the back of his neck as he slumped against the table, spent.

He grabbed an antiseptic wipe from the medpac and scrubbed down his hands until the cloth turned red. His eyes burned, feeling surprisingly wet, as he tossed the wipe away and blinked up at the ceiling.

“Shit that hurt.”

“—it!”

Din blamed it on the exhaustion for why he almost jumped out of his skin.

The kid stood at his feet, blinking up at him.

“When did you…What’re you…” Din struggled to right himself against the table, to stand on his own, but his hands wouldn’t cooperate. _Shit._

“Sh…Sou..—it!”

Din started. “What—?”

 _Ah hell._ He’d said it out loud.

“No…” Din rolled out weakly, struggling to hold up a finger because _that_ …Yeah, no kid should be saying _that._ “You…You don’t say shit— _that_ , you understand? Bad word.”

The child tilted his head, eyes flickering to Din’s finger. Din found himself following the child’s gaze too — taking in the red-stained skin and tremors.

_Dammit._

“You’re supposed to…to be sleeping,” Din said stupidly because he didn’t know what else to say.

The child stared at him, then at his hand again, then at him. An odd sense of guilt flooded Din’s veins and he felt fidgety, for whatever reason. Like he needed to do something or busy his hands in some way.

He turned, shoving the gauze and bloodied towels into the medpac. “You shouldn’t be up.”

The child, with brow furrowed, started up Din’s legs.

“What’re you doing?”

Din flinched as he felt claws dig into the fabric of his under-armor, nicking his skin.

This wasn’t the first time the kid had used his body as a personal jungle gym. Hell, Din had woken up many-a-morning to find the child bouncing on his chest, or sleeping on his face, or wrestling his arm — but somehow, this felt different. The playfulness was gone. Instead, the child seemed oddly determined.

The kid pulled himself onto the table, audibly panting. Then, much to Din’s surprise, the child started clambering up his side.

“Easy…” Din breathed, hands coming up around the kid to stop him, just in case he did something stupid — like fall.

But the kid only swatted at his hands, still climbing.

“Hey,” he tried, but the child simply hoisted himself onto his shoulder and reached behind him, straining.

Din reached around his head. “Okay. You’ve had your fun. Now—”

“Ah!” The kid held on, fingers snagged into Din’s clothing.

“Kid, that’s enough.”

The child let out a shriek so earsplitting that Din dropped his hands purely out of shock.

_Okay, so the kid didn’t want to be touched or moved._

Claws dug into his hair, twisting the strands, and suddenly, Din felt the kid straining again like he was reaching for something—

 _Oh hell._ “No. _No._ Don’t you—”

A hand pressed against his wound.

All at once, Din felt a soft heat envelop him. It eased into his body and curled around his neck, melting away the tension in his shoulders and the throbbing pain. Both were morphing into something strangely light. It felt foreign, outside of him, and yet the feeling was inside him. Taking the pain from him. Healing him.

It felt warm like a memory. Like the scent of his mother — the only thing he could remember about her. The smell of broiled _shuura_ fruit, of ground flour, of canapé. And his father — the feel of calloused but kind hands. The sound of laughter. A strong, lean arm hanging around his shoulder with pride. That was warmth to Din.

Healing always existed in memories, and his parents were embedded in his senses.

But this—

This felt different and yet, similar. There was the same sense of warmth, but a different feeling of wholeness. Like someone was _giving_ something to him.

And then — just as soon as the feeling blossomed, it was gone.

Din’s head snapped up, startled. The suture — _the whole suture_ — clattered to the ground. Stained but unbroken. Din’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. He twisted, then bent his head and nearly cursed when no twinge, no _pain_ , met him back.

_No._

He caught a flash of green and instantly he was darting forward, lunging. The child fell into his hands, pale and shivering.

“Dammit.”

Din stumbled around the room, tripping over the scim, as he hurried to find somewhere to sit. The whine that crooned from the kid catapulted Din into a chair.

His heart raced as he heard the child whine in his hands. He was cold, too cold and that realization sent Din grabbing for something, _anything,_ to stop the trembling.

“B…”

“Don’t speak. Don’t—” Din snatched a discarded cloth from the table and draped it over him, tucking the corners in. It wasn’t enough. _He needed more._ “That wasn’t…You shouldn’t have— _Shit._ ”

The child simply slumped in his grip and Din, stars damn him, didn’t have the heart to continue scolding the kid.

Claws dug into Din’s wrist. “B…Bo…”

“No talking,” Din choked out, feeling like something was caught in his throat. No matter how many times he swallowed, he couldn’t get rid of it.

The kid’s eyes drooped, looking so dangerously sleepy that Din drew him closer — just in case. The kid felt like ice. Like someone had drained all the warmth out of him.

Din’s hand trembled as he scrubbed his face. “Why did you do that? Why would you…”

The child brushed the collar-fold of Din’s shirt away and nuzzled into his bare chest.

“Boo…Buh…”

“What did I say about talking?”

A corner of the cloth-turned-blanket peeked out and Din tucked it back in, fussing. He _knew_ he was fussing, but he needed to busy himself in some way. Otherwise, Din wouldn’t be able to breathe; he was struggling to breathe properly now. All because the kid didn’t…

“Why don’t you listen?” Din whispered harshly, needing to push the matter further.

Because that was just it. The kid didn’t listen…ever. When Din said left, the kid went right. When Din said ‘don’t touch that,’ the kid acted like it was a suggestion. And when Din said stop-talking-because-you-don’t-have-the-strength-to-even-open-your-eyes, the little womp rat whined for him anyway.

Most of the time, the not-listening habit didn’t matter — except when it really did. It mattered a hell-of-a-lot when the kid’s life was on the line. And if the kid got hurt, if he died… Well, Din felt like that was on him.

“Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?” Din swallowed hard. “Not for me…”

He wasn’t about to get the child hurt. The kid was innocent. _Truly innocent._ Good, even.

It was odd to think such a thing. To Din, there was no such thing as ‘good or ‘bad.’ Right or wrong. Such concepts were fluid, subjective, determined more by his mood than by a value system. But there _was_ such a thing as innocence. The Tribe had taught him that. There were those who had done nothing wrong to warrant harm.

Foundlings.

The children left behind in the wake of destruction. It made sense to save those orphaned, to protect the defenseless, to bind up their wounds with care and affection. Foundlings were the future. But Din wasn’t a foundling anymore. Neither was he innocent. There was too much blood on his hands.

But the kid?

The kid was still naive enough to look at Din like he was the brightest moon orbiting around his world. Like Din could do no wrong. Like he was good too (even though that was a lie). The kid was pure, impressionable, too trusting for his own good, and Din wasn’t about to add the child’s blood to his ledger.

_Not if he could help it._

He didn’t know how much time passed. It felt like hours before the kid finally groaned, arms stretching out against Din’s chest. One of the child’s eyes blinked open and he stared up at Din lazily, ears perked.

“I see you’re awake.” Din attempted a smile.

The child opened his mouth, but a gurgle cut him off.

“And hungry,” Din noted, smirking at the child’s wide-eyed expression.

_Guess it’s time to eat._

Din stood and almost immediately, his eyes fell on the Geo’s decomposing body. Brown fluid pooled out from the insect, almost beginning to smoke. Din grimaced as he took in the other bodies and the wreckage that was his ship.

_A quick bite to eat and then he’d dispose of everything._

Adjusting the kid into the crook of his arm, Din started up the ladder. He heaved himself into the misc. room and instantly, breathed a sigh of relief. The shelves of food were still intact, not a jar was out of place. _At least the hunters hadn’t stolen anything._

“So, what do we want?” Din asked, trying to keep his voice light as he stood in front of the bulging shelves.

 _The kid was okay._ There was no need to keep fussing, but the same jittery feeling still thrummed under his skin and Din knew it’d be there for a while.

“Uh!” The child tugged on a mesh bundle sandwiched between a pair of canisters.

Din eyed the purple and silver-lined fruit, peeking out from the mesh. “Jogan fruit, huh?”

_Leave it to the kid to choose something so sweet._

Snapping a piece from its stem, Din angled around the table and kicked the bench out with his foot, only then sitting.

“Alright, here.” He held the purple fruit up to the kid’s mouth.

The child latched on and had the nerve to suckle the damn thing like it was one of his bottles. Slobber peeled down the silver-veined skin, dribbling onto Din’s wrist.

“Bite it,” Din suggested, wiping the spit off his hand with his pants.

“Eh?”

Din flashed his teeth, reiterating. “You bite it.”

The womp rat grinned, showing all of his tiny teeth.

“No, we’re not—” Din huffed. “I’m not… _smiling_. This is how you eat it. Use your teeth.”

The kid flashed him another grin.

“No.”

Din held up the fruit. “See this?” He made a chomping sound with his teeth. “Bite. _You_ bite.”

The child clinked his teeth together.

“I’m not—” Din pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen to me, this isn’t a game.”

The child’s ears flew up. “Boo?”

“ _Boo_?” Din started, not knowing what that had to do with anything. “No, not ‘boo.’ We’re not doing ‘boo’ right now. We’re—”

“Booo…”

Din almost banged his head against the table.

More out of exasperation than any kind of parental patience, he finally said—

“Here.”

—and bit into the fruit, keeping the bite small, and began to chew. When the piece felt soft enough, he pulled it out of his mouth.

“Open.”

Din shoved the fruit-mush into the kid’s mouth, dripping orange juice all over his chin. Instantly, the child’s eyes lit up and he ogled the piece of fruit like he was seeing it for the first time.

“Good, I assume?” Din hummed, gathering the juice from the kid’s chin with his thumb.

The kid hadn’t even swallowed before he started dragging the fruit towards him again.

“It’s not going anywhere,” Din eased, even as he held the fruit up to the kid’s lips. “Eating jogan isn’t hard. The skin’s kind of tough, but you’ll get over it. Just go in with your teeth first.”

The kid stared at the fruit, then back at Din. Whining, he batted the purple food away and opened his mouth to Din, making these ridiculous eager sounds like he was—

_Oh no._

“No…” Din rolled out as the child’s keens started to rise in pitch. “That was a one time thing.”

“Ah!” The kid strained up, touching Din’s mouth.

“I know,” Din said, forcing the child back onto his lap and _away_. “And the answer is no.”

The little womp rat had the nerve to ‘humph’ and slump down on Din’s thighs.

“I’m not changing my mind.”

Din swore the kid’s eyes got bigger.

And that —

Well, that just wasn’t fair.

“For the record, _you_ don’t get to tell _me_ what to do,” even as he bit into the fruit (the hypocrisy was not lost on Din).

Face burning red, he gathered the wad of purple-and-orange mush from his mouth and grumbled, “Open.”

The kid gobbled the fruit so fast he almost bit Din’s fingers off.

“You’re too old for this and you know it,” Din groused even as he bit into the fruit again. “Fifty-years-old, my ass.”

The child grabbed onto his forearms, eyes fixed on his mouth, and started open-mouth keening.

“Wait,” Din said, almost choking on the fruit.

“Ah!” The child shrieked, leaning so dangerously close he almost fell off Din’s lap. “Ah!”

“Dammit, _here_ , okay?” He shoved another wad into the kid’s mouth.

 _Demanding porg,_ the image toyed at Din’s mind as he monitored the kid’s bites, noting the swell of the child’s cheeks. The little womp rat even had the same wide-eyed look. It would have been cute if Din wasn’t practically mouth-feeding him.

“You’re going to choke, eating like that,” Din chided.

The child simply gulped and slapped his arm, back to demanding again. “Boo buh.”

“Yes, Your Highness?” Din deadpanned, already chewing.

Despite the fact that the kid was practically nagging him like an old woman, Din found he didn’t mind it as much. It was kind of endearing — in a strange sort of petulant pull-all-of-your-hair-out kind of way. The kid looked round enough to roll right off the table (hell, his stomach was practically the size of a small melon).

Smirking, Din scrubbed at the orange stain forming around the child’s mouth.

“I’m assuming you want more?”

The kid bounced on the table and with a grin, threw up all over him.

Later, Din made a mental note to wipe this event from the ship’s footage.

_No one, in their right mind, needed to see that._

~*~

Din stamped in the lock code, watching as the lift retracted, releasing a high-pitched squeal and a gust of warm air as it sealed back into the ship. He’d make sure to check the security latch this time, number all his bases just in case. Din couldn’t risk letting another band of mercenaries in the Crest, neither was he in the mood to dump any more bodies into the swamp. If all went well, he and the kid would be off this slime pool in less than two hours.

Assuming all _did_ go well.

Din doubted it would. A pouch of druggats, an anodized horn, and five Calamari Flan weren’t nearly enough to satisfy a syndicate member, but Din didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t buy anything off the black market that Tsarl didn’t already possess. If Din assumed correctly, the trader already had a foot in the economy, determining not only its ebbs and flows, but _where_ the money flowed. He also had a level of control off-planet, draining other systems of their resources.

Ultimately, Din would have to bargain.

_Or, at least, lie through his teeth._

The pack strapped against Din’s middle started to jostle, squirming against his chest. Din didn’t even have a minute to react before the kid’s head was popping out from beneath the lid, ears extending.

Din sighed. “What did I tell you about that?”

The kid simply heaved half of his body out the hole and grabbed Din’s face, nuzzling his cheek.

“You’re okay…”

It came out as a question, more than an assurance.

“Boo,” the child crooned.

“I know.” Din grabbed the child around his middle and settled him back into the pack. “I won’t take as long this time.”

Re-adjusting the straps, Din closed up the lid and set out, circling around the belching swamp. Thick smog clouded the air, saturating Din’s armor with a light mist. It wasn’t so much rain as it was condensation from all the pollution, and it smelled bad enough to kill.

A low whine reverberated within the pouch, causing Din to rest his hand on the lump jutting out from the side. He knew the kid hated being inside the pack, but until he came up with a better option, they both had to grin and bear it. He couldn’t risk another person seeing the kid, not after he’d caught the look in Tsarl’s eyes.

Din realigned his vambraces as he approached the marketplace archway, feeling a tension seep under his armor.

The clamor from the city filled his ears as he eased into the crowd, feeling a thousand-and-one bodies jostle around him. Cloaked merchants bid from their stalls, waving trinkets likely-stolen from other planets. Blash’narls paced in large cages, rounding the bars as if poised to pounce on any passerby. They wouldn’t be released until the arena opened and then, some unlucky servant would be shoved into the ring. It’d be a bloodbath.

“Gardulla…” Din heard a simpering voice call out from his left. “Fresh…Buy it fresh!”

At the end of the row, a trader draped in blue pleaded from his table. Even feet away, Din knew the man wouldn’t draw any buyer sounding like that. _He’d have to be much louder._ As if the trader had heard his thoughts, the man locked eyes on him, gaze immediately shrinking in on itself. Timid.

“A Mandalorian.”

A female voice lilted from the wall to his right, tearing Din’s attention away. Another person bumped into him and Din grimaced.

“What’re the likes of you doing here?”

Her voice sounded as breathy as the smoke she puffed from her pipe.

Din didn’t even spare the woman a glance, leaving her to cackle as he angled down the cobblestone streets. The bar was close by, mere feet from the marketplace boundary. Tsarl had already sent a signal earlier, naming his position and the time to meet. That, in and of itself, was a mercy. Din didn’t want to spend another second wandering the open streets with the kid.

He looked up, feeling eyes on him and frowned, catching the trader-in-blue openly staring again. The man jumped and immediately turned away, resuming his calls to the crowd.

Instinctively, Din’s hand came up to rest on the pouch, only to feel the sack deflate under his palm.

Empty.

He threw open the lid, hands scrabbling inside, only to feeling a mocking nothingness. The bottom of the sack stared back at him.

_The kid._

Din spun in a circle, scanning the ground, gaze flitting from person to person as his heart raced in his chest. Where the hell did he go? Din just had him. There was no way someone could have—

Another body pushed into him and Din’s blood instantly went cold.

The jostles. _A distraction._

Despite everything, Din’s eyes still searched the crowd, slipping by the cages, and past the trader-in-blue — whose eyes flitted away again.

Feeling a fire stoke under his skin, Din drove through the crowd, sending some bird-like creature screeching as he circled around the merchant tables and snatched the trader from his booth. He shoved the man into a wood-lined alley.

No one in the crowd batted an eyelash.

In an instant, Din had the merchant up against the wall, a knife to his throat.

The man’s hands flew up. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Where’s the kid?”

“I—I don’ know nothin’. I swear it! I swear—” The merchant squeaked as the blade cut into his skin. “I’m just a hum…humble trader. I don’ know—

“You know something,” Din burned, grip tightening on the hilt. “I _saw_ you.”

The man looked about ready to jump out of his skin. “I swear to you…I swear—”

Blood trailed down the man’s throat and onto the blade, gleaming as red as Din’s rage.

"Please...please don't—”

Din glared at the man, ignoring his snivels for mercy. It didn’t take a genius to know that this man wasn’t from Nal Hutta. Natives were pale — the dense smog, deflecting any rays of sunlight, made sure of that. This weasel had sun-spots and skin pruny enough to peel. Thus, moisture farmer and, judging by the thick accent, based somewhere in the mountains of Ord Mantell.

 _Rookie merchant._ Easy target for thieves to con. No matter what the merchant said, he was obviously scared of the thieves that had paid him to keep silent.

Din could smell a lie coming.

A bead of sweat trailed down the trader’s temple. “I…As you know, I don’t know who…who took your creature, but—”

The blade ignited blue, searing the man’s skin. The clamor of the marketplace drowned out the merchant’s howl.

“Wrong. Try again.”

The merchant’s wet-eyes widened. “I didn’t—!”

“You don’t lie often, which explains why you’re so _bad_ at it,” Din seethed. “You have ten seconds to start over.”

The vibroblade glowed ember-hot. “Four, three…”

The trader went pale. “Yo…You said ten!”

“Two…”

“Syndicate! Th…The gents were in the syndicate. I don’t know which one, I promise you. I-I’m not lying,” The man begged, almost crying now. “You’ve gots to believe me.”

At this point, Din didn’t believe anything.

Fixing the merchant with a glare, Din pushed away from him and started to pace.

“They…They stuffed ‘im in this sack. I couldn’t see ‘im.” The man’s eyes lit up and he took a step forward, stupidly emboldened. “B-But he must’ve been alive, I saw ‘im. Yeah, I know I saw ‘im. He was squirmin’ n’ such, keepin’ up a real hollar. Then, one of the gents hit the bag in such a—”

The knife sailed from Din’s hand fast enough to sing. The hilt wobbled between splintered wood, a breath from the merchant’s face. _Just a graze_ , but it was enough to make the weaselly man scream.

Din grabbed the merchant by the tunic. “Where?”

A sharp, pungent odor burned Din’s nose, heady enough to make him choke. He didn’t even need to glance down. _Stars._ The man had pissed himself.

“Juncture,” the trader panted, on the verge of passing out. “Waste-land juncture. In the capsule.”

Din snatched his knife and stalked off before the man could even hit the ground.

The kid wouldn’t last long apart from him, and that’s exactly what unsettled Din. _Waste-land juncture_. The place where even Death itself had gone to die. The kid could be anywhere there. Visions of crowded auction blocks and splicing stations assaulted his mind, pushing him through a crowded ginnel and down another alleyway. The kid was going to wake up to strangers. No, his mind corrected, not strangers. _Mercenaries._

_They’ll kill him._

That one thought threw Din down a set of steps, heart racing in his chest. The stone buildings blurred by him, melding into one. A kind of frenzy buzzed in his veins, urging him around an archway and into a dirt clearing. He stuttered to a halt.

_He was here._

A splintered sign swung in the breeze:

**Bargon wan che copa unko** _._

_There will be no bargain here._

Only the Hutts would make such a joke about death.

Din grimaced at the faded Huttese, then eying the broken circlet symbol staked in the ground.

The sign of the dead.

This was it.

A cast-iron capsule lid stood in the middle of the ground. Turning the latch, Din threw open the top and found himself staring at an endless abyss. The stench of fetid water billowed up from chasm, overwhelming his senses. If the merchant was right, the kid was down there somewhere. If the man was also right, then that meant Din didn’t have much time.

Without a hesitation, Din dropped down, splashing into a pool of murky water. The musty, rancid odor bloomed, stinging his nose as he pulled out his blaster, aiming it at the dark tunnel.

He flicked on his headlight. Clouds of dust glimmered in the floodlight, dancing off rows of empty tombs that appeared in Din’s line of sight. _Of all the places he had to go…_

Din was in the catacombs.

Crypts ran along the walls, repetitive, one following after another like a memoriam procession. Ominous.

Din slipped along a stone column, leaning into the shadows to shield him. Water dripped off his cape as he angled around a corner, following the labyrinth. Other than the squeak of Din’s boots against the floor, the catacombs were silent, hollow. By the looks of it, the crypt had been cleared ages ago.

Leading with his blaster, Din wandered down a hall. With each step, his mind careened from one thought to the next. _The child. Where would they hide him? To use crypts as a refuge… Idiots—_ He froze, feeling something splinter and crunch under his boots. Din angled his headlight down, dragging the beam along the cobblestones. A lone skull lay cracked and disintegrated under his foot.

Din grimaced and dragged the remains against the wall with his boot. A feeling too grim to be anger blackened his emotions as he continued down the hall, eying the bones littering the floor. This was no way to treat the dead.

He peered up and suddenly found himself face-to-face with a stone wall. A dead end.

 _Great._ Grumbling, Din retraced his steps and followed the left-leading path, all the while berating himself. He didn’t have time to get lost; neither did he have time to wander through the catacombs, checking each hall. He had to find the kid and fast.

This time, the hall opened into a circular rotunda lined with rooms, each leading down a separate corridor _._ The smell of animal droppings overwhelmed Din’s senses and, for a second, he scanned the floor. There was no dung, only the same water-slicked cobblestones that lined the markets. Din sniffed the air again, detecting an oily musk and this time, he cursed. _Shit._

Rodians.

As if knowing they’d been discovered, a hooting sound echoed from an adjacent corridor to his right. Correction: there were _several_ raucous hooting sounds. _He’d be walking in on a whole company._

Quickly, Din pocketed his blaster and skirted around a pillar. He kneeled and flipped the rifle off his back, angling the prongs toward the corridor. He flicked on the comlink.

First, there was static.

Scowling, Din readjusted the aural, tuning in until the static melted away into a low buzz. 

Then—

_Prog…[_ static _]…mnete enyaz ftt sove shuss._

Make it four thousand credits, he heard give-or-take. Din couldn’t be sure. It was the one thing he hated about Rodese: the language had a resonance to it, making translation a pain in the ass.

He peered through the thermal scanner, noting four, no five — Well, more than five bodies, sauntering around the corridor.

 _Ittu,_ someone cursed.  _The little rat is worth more than that, idiot._

_How much would the ears go for?_

_Bang on the pen, it does this…[static] thing._

A clatter pierced Din’s ears, shrilling the comlink. There was laughter and he heard the child wail.

Din’s grip tightened on the balancing stock. _Control,_ Din worked to calm himself. _Regain control._ He could feel his composure slipping, morphing into something wild and chaotic, _reckless_ in its urgency to burst into the room, guns blazing. Memories flashed in his mind of blood and gore, screams and blaster flares, Alvok-3, Xi’an and the crew. He’d been younger then, temperamental, just doing what he had to do to finish the job. And yet, the same chaotic energy that had flooded him then, surged inside of him now. _He was still willing to do whatever he had to do._

His breath came out quick against the helmet and in the back of his mind, Din realized he was shaking. _Control._ Din ground his teeth, forcing the thoughts out as he willed his muscles to relax.

 _The field of battle is my sanctuary,_ Din recited the saying he’d learned as a boy. Now, he found the mantra anchored him, disciplining his emotions when all else failed. _The suit of armor is my identity. The rite of death is my honor._ He inhaled, steadying his breathing. _I am unafraid of death._ Din exhaled, stock still. _Only dar’manda._

Rationality and control gradually eased themselves back into Din’s mind, grounding his focus in the present. Loosening his grip on the rifle, he breathed out slowly and switched the comlink off. He had what he needed.

Din slipped the rifle onto his back and eyed the corridor, assessing. Leading with his guns would be an issue; it’d excite the Rodians and definitely provoke them into a hunt mentality. They were predators first, peacekeepers almost never. Besides, they’d detect Din’s body heat before he could even step into the room. So, no guns. _For now._

_He’d need to proceed with care._ Flicking off his headlight, Din started down the corridor.

Music met Din first. A low croon beckoned him forward. _Closer._ Din kept his footsteps light and decisive. Muted. They would sense him, but wouldn’t hear him. An eerie silence, settled over the hall, the tension so thick Din’s vibroblade could have sliced through it. The odor flared as he stepped through the corridor and into a dark room.

_There were more than he’d anticipated._

Rodians leaned against the walls, crowded around crates with cards at their feet, stood in front of him. Din counted nine. Five with their guns out.

 _Slow_ , Din instructed himself, easing up on his footsteps. He needed to appear as prey, not hunter. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, here to strike a bargain. 

Yet, even as he edged forward, Din’s mind raced. Scanning _._ He took in the goblets, the jugs filled with something brown and sludgy like grog, the upbeat music, the lingering light energy. _So, he’d walked in on a party._

A Rodian shifted and Din’s eyes followed too quickly. Immediately, he felt the blood drain from his face. _The kid._ The child sat, hunched and trembling, in a rusted cage. An inch of control slipped from Din’s hands.

The kid fisted his eyes and glanced up, sad gaze slipping past Din, then back. Shocked.

“Ah!” The child slipped on a rag as he ran up to the bars, crying. “Buh…Buh!”

 _Control._ The word hovered over Din’s mind, but this time he squashed it like an irritating mosquito. If anything, his self-restraint was down to a single thread.

“The Mandalorian, at last!”

A set of footsteps stalked towards him, but Din could care less. His gaze remained on the kid, trying to will the child to settle. Din had everything under control; he knew what he was doing. He’d get the kid out as soon as—

The creature _‘ahem-ed’_ and Din almost punched him in the face. Familiar mucus-lined eyes stared up at him, amused and intrigued.

_Tsarl._

“You’ve kept us waiting,” Tsarl said in Rodese, sucker-tipped fingers folding together. The surrounding Rodians’ eyes trained on the trader, angling to face him, and Din finally put two-and-two together. Tsarl wasn’t just a syndicate member. _He was one of the leaders._ “In the meantime, your pet has kept us entertained.”

Snickers swelled around the room and Din fought the urge to grab for his gun.

“Of course, we didn’t want to do this, but you forced our hand.” Tsarl turned his back on him and Din immediately scanned the creature’s frame for weak points. _Base of the skull, exposed spine. Easily vulnerable. One quick blow would do the job._

“You should never refuse a good offer, Mando, especially when it is to your benefit.”

The leader slipped the map from his sleeve and waved the piece of paper around like it was a damn treat.

_And Din was the dog._

Din actually reached for his blaster this time.

Tsarl laughed. “There is no need to be testy, Mando. You’re here now, so why don’t we discuss payment _properly_ this time _._ ” The Rodian batted a green hand, shooing the females out of the room.

Din’s mood soured as he watched them grab their glasses and slip past the leader. _Chauvinist pig._

“As I was saying, we’re willing to re-offer you a considerable wage for the rat.” Tsarl began, standing from his chair. “You’re an intelligent specimen. Surely, you are not one to reject good business.”

The child whimpered. “Buh—”

“Quiet, you!” Tsarl kicked the cage, sending the child flailing back against the bars. Smirking, the leader turned back to Din. “So, what do you say?”

Din wondered how much the creature’s head would go for? His eyes narrowed on the kid, taking in the cut now-bleeding above his brow, then at the company surrounding the ringleader. He counted five of them _. Now that was doable._

For now, he needed to distract. “Why?”

“Why what?” Tsarl smirked. “Why offer you money in exchange for the little rat when I could just kill you where you stand? Is that your question, Mando, because it’s an awfully _boring_ one.”

Snickers.

Tsarl eyed Din and smiled. “Really, Mando, I am no brute. Unlike my counterparts, I actually believe in sound, equitable business.”

Din doubted that. The Pyke Syndicate was known for many things —crime raids, robbery, enslaving whole people groups to do their dirty work— but ethical business was not one of them.

“Still, even a businessman longs to close a deal.” Tsarl continued, pacing in front of Din. “For the creature, I’ll give you five thousand credits as well as the map.”

Big eyes stared at Din through the cage.

“He’s not for sale,” Din said.

“Seven thousand, then.”

Feeling a fury stoke under his skin, Din said nothing.

The Rodian glanced back at the surrounding group and, for some reason, they all started to laugh. Din didn’t see what could be so funny.

“Come now. The offer is generous and as I’m sure you know, we won’t ask so nicely again.” Tsarl’s bug-eyes squinted, looking increasingly irritated, as he pulled out a blaster. “Now, name your price.”

The child whimpered and reached for him through the bars.

“What did I say!” Tsarl rammed the butt of its gun through the bars, jamming the child’s hand against the steel.

The kid screeched. Din flipped his rifle over his shoulder and blew the creature’s head off.

“ _Ittu!_ ” The company shrieked in anger, antennae rattling. 

In an instant, blaster beams rebounded off of Din’s armor. To his left, one Rodian unsheathed a pair knives and charged. No body padding. No armor.

_Sloppy._

Din snapped his rifle to his back and launched his grappling line. The cord wrapped around the mercenary’s neck, knives clattering to the floor. The Rodian squealed, clawing at the line, as Din yanked the creature against him.

He grunted as a blaster beam ricocheted off his helmet. Din whipped around, using the Rodian as a shield. The mercenary screamed and dropped to the ground. Smoking.

“Bastard.” 

A flare clipped Din’s arm. Another struck his shoulder. _Irritating._ In a single breath, Din swiped one of the fallen knives from the ground and slit the Rodian’s throat.

The air felt charged, electric. Din was aware of everything: the squeak of his boots as he spun away from another round of blaster beams, the slippery blood beneath his feet, the current Rodian racing towards him. It came to him at once — and when the softest scuff sounded behind him, Din moved without even needing to think.

He pivoted, drawing his vibroblade in one fluid movement, and drove the knife back into the creature’s chest. Dead weight dropped to the ground behind him. 

A shout roared in front of him. 

_Last one,_ Din concluded.

A flare grazed his forearm, but Din barely felt the sting. He skirted around the mercenary and kicked behind its knee. A harsh break. Without missing a beat, he seized the creature’s wrist and snapped it left, cracking the bone instantly.

The Rodian howled just as Din snatched it by the throat and swiped the blaster. 

“S…Scum—” The mercenary cut off, pupil-less eyes bulging as Din’s grip tightened around its throat. “ _Ka…Ka noota!_ The money! Ta…Take the money!”

“I’m not _interested_ in money,” Din seethed, blood pulsating in his ears like a war cry, urging him to finish the Rodian off. 

The creature clawed at Din’s hand as mucus began to bleed out of its eyes. “We…we didn’t…know—!”

Frankly, Din didn’t care. He forced the blaster against the Rodian’s head, disregarding the mercenary’s cries for mercy. Din’s finger primed on the trigger, ready to pull, when suddenly, he heard a whimper.

Instinctively, Din turned to the sound. 

“Boo…Buh.” The child sniffled, face pressed up against the bars as he cradled his hand. “Bu… _Buir_.” 

Din’s grip slackened around the Rodian’s throat. _The kid. He’d said…_ Din almost relaxed — _almost —_ when he noticed the child’s abnormally pudgy hand. Swollen and discolored.

The creature suddenly gurgled. “Wa…Wait!”

Din glanced back at the Rodian wordlessly, only now realizing he’d started to choke the mercenary. His fingers flexed around the creature’s pebbly skin, considering.

The child sniffled and called again, “ _Buir...”_

_Dammit._ He couldn’t think straight, not like this. He needed to get the kid out of the cage, but Din’s anger also demanded vengeance, calling for blood like a ravenous beast, seldom satisfied. Yet, at the same time, the call melded with another. 

The child cried out for him again and Din, finding so little resistance within himself, folded. 

Growling, he dropped the Rodian. The creature collapsed to the ground, sputtering for air. It eyed Din contemptuously and tried to crawl away. Din snatched the mercenary’s broken wrist, ignoring the creature’s pained howls, and cuffed its hands.

“By all means, move.” Din stood, yanking his blade out from one of the bodies. “Killing you would be a pleasure.”

Flashing the mercenary one last glare, Din turned to the kid. The child strained against the bars, reaching for him as small tears ran down his cheeks. Din almost tripped over his feet to get to him.

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” Din breathed, falling to his knees. He slipped a few fingers through the bars.

The child grabbed onto them like a lifeline. “ _Bu…Buir._ ”

“Hold on,” Din calmed as the kid’s cries grew insistent. He grabbed the lock fastened to the bars and cursed, feeling the intricate pattern of teeth. _They’d attached a triple cinch and a flap guard._ There was no way he could pick it.

Snarling, Din stomped towards the Rodian and snatched it by the shirt. “Where’s the key?”

The creature spewed green gunk on his helmet, spitting on him. Din grabbed the Rodian’s broken wrist and slammed it against a pillar. The creature’s screams echoed around the room.

“Let’s try again,” Din said, breathing heavily. “Where is it?”

Whimpering in pain, the Rodian panted, “Sa…Satchel…The boss’s satchel.”

Din dropped the mercenary and stalked towards the decapitated leader. He kicked the body to the side, barely glancing at it, and unfastened the leather satchel. He rummaged inside, grimacing as he tossed out a pouch of peggats and Drallish crowns, before finding a short cylindrical key. _This had to be it._

Throwing away the satchel, Din hurried back to the cage and grabbed the bolt lock. He shoved the key inside and turned right, setting off a melodic clinking as the teeth unbolted themselves. With one final click, the lock opened and Din flung open the door.

The child stumbled out of the cage and fell into his arms, mewling. Din released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The child was okay. _His kid was safe._

Cupping the child’s face, Din looked him over. A scratch cut near the kid’s brow, small but still peeking blood. His right hand was swollen too. The child, now whimpering under Din’s examinations, held it against his stomach. 

“You’re alright,” he soothed, keeping his voice hushed and low as he pulled the kid back into his arms. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

The child whined and Din stroked his back, shushing away the cries. All the while, guilt ate at Din’s insides. He shouldn’t have let the child out of his sight. He’d acted thoughtlessly and the kid, caught in the crossfire, had paid the price. Alternate endings of what _might have happened_ flashed in Din’s mind, haunting him even as he rose to his feet.

Din nestled the kid into the crook of his arm, careful not to bump the child’s bruised hand. He stepped around the dead bodies, intentionally avoiding the spatters of blood, and pocketed the map and pouch of money. Saying nothing, Din headed for the exit and then — stopped.

A croon lilted in Din’s ears and he inclined his head. The sound—? His eyes landed on a set of speakers. 

_Fna ho koru gep. Tni snato, oona—_

In an instant, Din whipped out his blaster and shot the musical device. It burst into flames, spewing out sparks and smoke. The Rodian snarled, shouting obscenities and threats in Rodese, but Din didn’t so much as spare the creature a glance.

“ _T-te jacta._ ” The Rodian swore, struggling against the cuffs. _I’ll get you for this._

No _,_ Din decided. _No, the creature wouldn’t._ By the time someone stumbled on the mercenary, Din and the child would be light-years away. They’d be beyond the reach of danger and frankly, far away from this scum hole and its weasels.

~*~

“Let me see it.”

The child whimpered and stumbled back on the steel table, knocking over a case of bolts in the process. He cradled his puffy hand away from Din’s reach. For the fourth time, Din sighed and rested his hands on his thighs, at a loss.

They’d been at this for almost twenty minutes now and Din, stars help him, was losing his mind. After they’d made the jump, Din had immediately set to work to examine the kid’s swollen hand, but the child, both incredibly fussy and weepy, refused to let him so much as touch it.

“I can’t help if you won’t let me see it,” Din breathed out, resting his arm on the table.

Ears drooping, the kid whined and stared down at his discolored hand. Bluish bruises marred the green skin, darkening the hand into a shade that left Din feeling unusually frenzied. He didn’t want to force the kid, but Din was running out of viable options. He’d even tried taking off his helmet, coaxing the child to give him the hand, but the kid had refused then too.

Releasing a low whine, the kid glanced up and Din swore the child’s eyes got rounder.

“I won’t hurt you,” Din said softly, holding out his hand.

The child sniffled and, eying the outstretched hand once, then twice more, shuffled towards Din. Trembling, he finally let Din near the wound.

The hand perched on Din’s thigh clenched into a fist as he turned the child’s fingers over, feeling the inflamed skin. It had swelled to almost two times the size of the kid’s other hand. An image of Tsarl’s amused face flashed in Din’s mind, uninvited. Din fingered his blaster.

“Buh _…_ ” The child whimpered, looking down at his swollen hand.

“I know it hurts,” Din soothed, pushing the memory away and reaching for the medpac.

He popped open the lid and rummaged around the container, noting but disregarding the medisensor, flex clamps, and bacta patches stuffed inside. Though they might prove helpful in the future, for now, they’d be of no use to the kid. Tossing aside a pack of pain relievers and seeing the bottom of the container, Din almost grumbled in frustration. Then, his fingers brushed against something cold and wet. _So, he hadn’t thrown it out…_

Relieved, Din pulled out a chilled slicka pad. If he timed it right, the pad would reduce the swelling in less than five minutes. He tore off a square with his teeth, flicking water onto the table.

He hovered the pad over the kid’s hand. “This’ll be cold.”

Din placed the chilled pack as gently as he could over the skin. Even so, the child still yelped and tried to tug his hand back, eyes wide with fright.

“It’s only for a second,” Din attempted to calm, but the kid shook his head, still pulling.

Exhaling, he readjusted the child’s hand in his grip, not tight but firm enough to keep the kid from running. He laid the slicka pad on the swelled area and the kid screeched, slapping Din’s hand.

“Stop that,” Din chastened, voice dipping an octave.

The child whined, ears drooping lower than Din had ever seen them.

Din sighed and softened his voice this time. “I’m almost done.”

The pack barely even brushed the kid’s skin before he started squirming again, cries rising.

“I just need to—”

Suddenly, a force slammed into Din’s chest, throwing him back against the wall. The shelf above him trembled and cups shattered onto the floor. Loose papers flew everywhere, floating around him. Din groaned, vision blurry and heart racing, as he steadied his hand on a torn box. His body cried out in pain as he stumbled to his feet.

His vision oscillated into focus and, with it, came Din’s bewilderment. _What the hell just happened?_

An unexpected sniffle snatched Din out of his thoughts.

The kid stood at the edge of the table, looking surprisingly guilty and sad. His eyes filled with tears and realization hit Din like a ton of bricks.

_Of course._

Wincing, Din limped towards the child. He bit back a groan, feeling an ache in his side, as he angled his body onto the dented bench. Before Din could even get comfortable, the child threw his arms around his neck, whimpering.

“You’re fine.” Din patted the kid’s back, trying and _failing_ to calm him. “It was an accident.”

A low warble whistled in Din’s ear and it took him a second to realize the child was crying.

Din exhaled. “I’m okay.”

“ _B…Buir,_ ” the kid stammered, wet tears dripping onto Din’s neck.

“I know you didn’t mean it.”

After a while, Din felt short claws dig into his shoulder blades and the kid drew back slightly, still looking mournful.

“Wanna try again?” Din asked, wiping the tears from the child’s cheeks.

The kid eyed the slicka pad, now wading in a puddle of water, and looked back at Din. Frowning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Din threw back, unwilling to admit that he deserved it. He slid the cold pack towards himself. “I’ll be gentler.”

He laid the pack against the child’s skin again, though careful not to apply too much weight this time. Din glanced up at the kid. Nothing, just sniffles.

Din added some more weight.

The child whined and gave Din a look that almost made him want to abandon his efforts altogether.

“It’s just for a little bit.” Still, Din readjusted the pad in his hand, giving the illusion that he’d shifted the weight.

Unfortunately, the little womp rat wasn’t buying it. He tugged tentatively on the pack with his other hand, sad eyes fixed on Din.

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” Din breathed out, feeling the child’s keens pull on his heart. It was almost painful. “We’re nearly there, I promise. Just a few more minutes.”

The child sniffled, but thankfully, stopped tugging on the pack. Still, judging by the water rimming the kid’s eyes, Din didn’t have much time.

 _Hurry up._ Din’s fingers shook as he lifted the pad, peered at the swelling underneath. Though most of the inflammation had gone down, the skin was still raised slightly. _Almost there._

Tears began to fill the kid’s eyes and he pushed on the pack, voice wobbly. “ _Bu…Buir…_ ”

“I know baby,” Din’s voice broke as he watched the tears spill over and roll down the child’s cheeks.

Stupidly, he raised the pack again (as if a few more seconds would have done the job) and cursed. Of course, there was no change. He moved to reassure the kid that his hand _was in fact_ almost healed when a screw suddenly popped off the wall. The table screeched and then — shit hit the fan.

The kid threw back his head and started to wail. Din jumped as the lights on the ceiling buzzed, flickering in-and-out. Somewhere, the electrical unit whined like it was being yanked off its hinges. _Dammit._

“Kid, I’m almost done,” Din hurried to say, but the child’s cries drowned out his voice.

A gasket squealed to his left, and a lightbulb above the shelf sizzled, then popped. Exploding.

 _Get ahold of yourself,_ the more restrained part of Din hissed as his heart raced in tandem with the kid’s cries. _Think, dammit._ Something crashed in the cockpit and distantly, Din realized he still hadn’t moved. He was panicking.

He winced as the kid’s shrills rose to an octave Din didn’t even know was humanly possible.

 _To hell with it._ Din flung the pack off the child’s hand and scooped the kid up. Stumbling from behind the bench and banging his knee in the process, Din lumbered around the table and pressed the child into his shoulder. The kid blubbered against him, weeping.

Din willed his racing heart to slow as he shushed the kid. “You’re alright.”

Hiccuping, the kid drew back and rubbed his face against Din’s cheek.

“Bo…Boo.”

“You did so well,” Din praised, feeling the kid’s tears on his face as he stroked his back.

The squeals from the gaskets quieted into a low whistle. The child sniffled and nestled back into Din’s neck, starting to settle. Breathing a sigh of relief, Din kicked the bench out from under the table and sat.

Instantly, the child went rigid against him and burrowed the swollen hand under Din’s collar.

“I’m not going to do it again,” Din breathed out. “Relax.”

The kid eyed him and Din sighed, only now seeing the snot smeared all over the child’s face. Pulling out a cloth from his belt, Din grimaced and wiped around the kid’s mouth and cheeks. He reached for the nose and the child turned his head away, squirming.

“Fine,” Din huffed, tossing the rag onto the table.

Leaning back, Din finally allowed his body to relax. The familiar beeping from the cockpit filled his ears and Din inclined his head, listening. _Five beeps slow, two quick._ The calculations appeared in his mind without hesitation. _52,000 miles._

 _Good._ They were miles away from Nal Hutta, but still too far from the map’s location. He’d stolen a glance at the piece of paper when they’d first taken off from the swampy planet. Call it curiosity, but it felt more like precaution to Din. Surprises weren’t his forte; he preferred to know exact details — coordinate routes, the number of starports, population density. Wherever they were going, he needed to be ready for anything.

Din didn’t know what he’d expected to find when he’d spread out the map and scanned the coordinates. Maybe a depraved place like Moraband or some shroud of darkness like Malachor. Either way, some planet clouded with history and mystique.

Instead, the first thought that formulated in his mind when he calculated the destination was _Well, laying low won’t be an option._

The second — _So, Coruscant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the mantra idea goes to Sabaa Tahir, the author of An Ember in the Ashes. I loved the idea of a battle mantra. She's a literary genius.
> 
> Psych-Corner with Din 
> 
> As usual, grab something warm to drink and cozy up on a couch or something because we’re about to psychoanalyze our favorite ManDadlorian. 
> 
> Control. This word really shapes Din’s character, not just in this chapter but in the story arc of the Disney+ series. If you notice, in the Disney+ series, Din is extremely self-restrained, particularly when he’s working/hunting. Take Episode One for example: when he and his bounty are preparing to leave, a sea-monster attacks Din’s ship. While the bounty freaks out (“We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!”), Din simply grabs his rifle and shocks the thing. Or, for another example, take Din’s speak patterns: the few times Din talks, his voice is usually even, un-impressed (though slightly sarcastic), and unaffected. In other words, Din rarely reacts. He responds to stimuli with careful consideration and action, but rarely with anxiety. He is an incredibly controlled character.
> 
> The majority of the times when we see him react is when the kid is involved (OR: when the Covert or his clan are attacked/harmed). In Episode Three when Din storms the Imperial Client’s hideout to retrieve the kid, he’s physically shaking when he thinks the doctor harmed the child. 
> 
> So, to bring all the bacon home, Din reacts emotionally when he truly cares about something or someone. Think the child, think Kuiil when Din couldn’t reach him, think IG-11 when he’s going to sacrifice himself. The control slips from his hands, primarily because his heart is now leading him. He’s responding affectively, and that is what makes him such a beautiful character. His character is sandwiched between control and surrender.  
> 


	7. The Uncovering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are getting longer (not intentionally, mind you). I've since realized that I love crafting chapters that read more like episodes. I hope you enjoy the latest installment.

“Mind telling me why I had to hear from a _droid_ that Plenx’s body is currently missing its head?”

Din barely spared Karga’s holoform a glance, too busy trying to stop the kid from climbing his body like it was his personal jungle gym.

“Not especially, no.” In the same breath, Din turned and eyed the kid. “Get down from there. You know what happened last time.”

“Uh.” The child slumped against his shoulder, winded.

Karga cleared his throat meaningfully. “Be that as it may, an explanation is still in order.”

“There isn’t much to—Hey!” Din started, feeling a weight suddenly heave itself on top of his helmet. Two large eyes blinked at him from the ledge of his helmet.

“Buh.”

Din peeled the kid off his helmet and plopped him down on the table.

“Now, you stay.”

Din picked up a milk bottle and started to shake it, turning back to Karga’s holoform. “This really isn’t the best time.”

“And why’s that?” 

Well, for starters, this was Din’s sixth (and counting) attempt at making the kid a bottle of milk and he wasn’t in the mood to be interrupted. The first two bottles had come out clumpy like a stodgy meal. He’d missed the bottle head on the third attempt and ended up spilling powdered milk over the table and onto the kid, and on the fourth and fifth attempts the concoction had looked more like jaar juice than milk.

Secondly, in the span of two hours, the kid had managed to throw near-scalding porridge in Din’s face (hence, the smarting skin underneath his helmet), pee all over Din’s shirt (hence the wet spot), overturn the wash basin whilst bathing (hence the pool of water on the floor) and, as of right now, was preparing to leap off the table.

“The hell—” Din swore, snagging the womp rat’s jumper before he jumped _._ “No more of that.”

“No,” the kid parroted, throwing his hands out and knocking one of the failed milk bottles from the table.

Din watched the watery milk travel across the floor and seep into the pile of unwashed clothes in the room’s corner. _Great, now all the clothes would smell like rancid milk._

“Extraordinary,” Karga laughed, his holoform leaning closer. “When did the little one learn to say that?”

“Hell if I know,” Din grumbled, setting the child back down.

The kid scrambled to lean over the table, tracking the milk trail. His eyes flickered between the other bottles and the trail. Din could have groaned.

“Don’t—”

The kid swiped his arm across the table and suddenly, Din was standing in a sea of emptied bottles with milk dripping off his boots.

“No!” The child clapped his hands triumphantly.

The sigh that left Din was his soul leaving his body.

Karga ‘ahemed’ with a tone of amusement. “If I may be so bold—”

“You may not.”

“—I do believe you’re acclimating well to the domestic life, Mando. Not many can don the parental look.”

Din could have killed him.

“Boo…” The kid whined, tugging the bottle in Din’s hand down and towards his mouth.

“Wait,” Din stilled. “I haven’t tested—”

The nipple barely touched the kid’s lips before he was latching on, gulping the milk down like a man starved.

 _Ah, what the hell._ Sighing, Din slipped the kid off the table and collapsed into the nearest chair, nestling the child in the crook of his arm.

“I am relieved that you and the baby made it out in one piece,” Karga said, expression then turning grim. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid after what happened, you might not be so…unhindered for long.”

At that, Din looked up at the holoform. “What do you mean?”

“Nal Hutta. The trade exchange?”

“What about it?”

Karga sighed. “If I didn’t know better, Mando, I’d say you’ve got a death wish to get yourself blasted to kingdom come.”

“The bug had it coming.”

“That’s not the point,” Karga countered with an exasperation thick enough to bleed through the telecommunication device. “You can’t afford to make enemies with the whole galaxy, and you _cannot_ afford to agitate the Pyke Syndicate. Sometimes, to retain peace, compromises must be made.”

“Spoken like a true magistrate.”

“Spoken like a _survivor,_ ” Karga corrected. “I didn’t make it out of the fall of the Empire rough-rousing every mudhen that looked at me funny.”

Din scowled at the man’s blinking holoform. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew about compromise and the rare moments when such diplomacy was absolutely necessary. Some exchanges required for lines to be crossed, but Din prostituting himself for some old map was not one of them. He wasn’t about to play along with a crime lord’s games and risk the child’s safety by doing so. That wasn’t compromise or survival; that was blatant stupidity.

“There’s a bounty on your head, Mando,” Karga outted. “50,000 Imperial credits. You know the times we’re in; any hunter —experienced or not— would risk dying for such a reward. Not to mention the bounty on that baby of yours… The retrieval of both you and the child would make any hunter a rich one indeed.”

 _50,000._ Even Din had to pause at such a number. What would that have been? A year’s worth of food for the Covert? Enough money to forge new armor for his brothers and sisters — and then some?

_50,000 credits._

And it was hanging over his own head.

“So Plenx has generous friends,” Din finally breathed out.

Karga scoffed. “The Syndicate? As lucrative as that group is, even they wouldn’t waste such an amount on one leader. They’re just puppets.”

“And the puppeteer?”

Karga steeled him with a look.

 _Stars above._ “So, he knows.”

Karga nodded. “And it’s only a matter of time before Gideon finds out what that map entailed and where it’s going. He’s obsessed with obtaining that child.”

The kid whined, as if hearing, and batted away the bottle, preferring instead to suckle on Din’s knuckles.

“He won’t,” Din murmured, grimacing at the slobber running down his fingers. “Not on Coruscant, anyway.”

 _The world within worlds,_ as Din preferred to call it — more out of annoyance than wonder. The planet was a pain in the ass, especially when tracking down bounties. Din had once tracked a Tholothian off Level 30 into the seediest corners of the underworld. At the time, he’d assumed the take-down and capture would be straight-forward (he’d obtained the smuggler’s chain code, tracking phob, and hologram) — only to find that each one of Coruscant’s level sectors boasted a unique niche, condition of life, and socioeconomic access that differed from district to district. Add-in the fact that the planet had over a trillion residents, all speaking various languages, and the track-down had easily been one of Din’s worst to date.

But this time, the planet’s ecumenopolis could possibly work to his advantage.

“Coruscant?” A voice that sounded too much like Cara shouted. A second later, Karga’s body spliced out of the holoform, only for Cara’s to replace it.

“You can’t possibly be thinking about strolling into a Jedi Temple on that planet — not with the amount of Imps still crawling around in the shadows.”

Din’s silence was enough of a response.

“I hope you know you’re an idiot, Din.”

“Nice to see you too, Cara.”

Cara folded her arms. “I just want you to be safe.”

“You seemed to think differently about Nal Hutta,” Din countered.

“Yeah, ‘cause you knew what to expect. There was no way you’d get your ass handed to you there.”

Well, no one could say Cara didn’t have a way with making insults seem like compliments.

“Thanks,” Din deadpanned.

“Nal Hutta is predictable and you know it, but Coruscant?” She shook her head. “Coruscant is never what it seems — especially not now with the New Republic. They don’t have enough power, enough traction yet. The Empire might be gone, but the allure for political influence isn’t. Gideon could easily find associates to track you for the right price. You’re going in with no line of defense, no support—”

“I know someone,” Din implied.

Even with the hologram, Din could see Cara’s eyebrow raise considerably.

“You’ve got a contact?” She asked, sounding humored. “Didn’t know you had friends in such high places.”

Din blanched. “Not a friend. Just someone who owes me a favor.”

“And you trust them?”

“Not especially, but—” Din cut off, feeling something wet dribble down his fingers.

He slipped his hand from the kid and grimaced, only now seeing the amount of slobber coating his hand.

“Boo…” The child whined, groping for his hand.

Din batted the kid’s hands away, reaching into his pocket to slip a pacifier into the kid’s mouth. The kid responded by popping it out and seizing Din’s hand again.

Sighing, Din turned back to Cara. “Not especially, but he’s loyal — that much I know.”

“Friend or foe, it doesn’t matter. Either way, you’ll need to be careful,” Karga’s voice reappeared. “Coruscant is not Nal Hutta. It can’t be.”

_This again._

Cara huffed in the background. “Karga...”

“I told you, the deal was shit,” Din argued.

“For goodness sake, Mando, no one offs syndicate members unless they’re asking for a crime war,” Karga retorted again, much to Din’s irritation. There was a reason why he’d evaded this conversation. “I know his kind can be greedy, but you were dealing with Plenx, the trade king. If that map didn’t work for you, surely he could have had other information, other intel.”

Din bit back a groan. “Why does it matter?”

Karga sighed. “It _matters_ because your work is always precise, Mando. Always clear-headed, always tidy but what happened on Hutta…? I don’t know what _that_ was, but if it happens on Coruscant, you’ll get others killed.”

“What he means to say is,” Cara sighed, eying Karga from behind her. “It’s only a matter of time before someone starts sniffing around, trying to figure out who leaked Plenx’s location and assets.”

And that information hit Din square between the eyes.

As if reading him, Cara reassured, “With so many enemies, it’s unlikely the bug’s allies will track us down. We can hold our own. All we’re saying is…you’re not the only one who needs to watch your back now.”

“Exactly.” Karga said, just as someone called for Cara, drawing her away. “And for your sake as well as ours, I’d suggest you proceed with tact and caution…”

Din leaned back in his chair and looked away, locking and unlocking his jaw. He could hear Karga still rambling, providing diplomatic suggestions, and Din had half the mind to disconnect the communication-link just to avoid it all. He knew they were just worried; they were being logical. Yet, somehow, Din still felt a frustration simmering in his chest. He didn’t want to think about Nal Hutta or the Rodian’s smirking face or the kid’s since-faded bruises or how easy it was for him to make the switch — to snap. He just didn’t.

He was going to cut the connection, but then the words came out of him unbidden and strained.

“He touched the kid.”

“What?”

“He _touched_ the kid.”

Karga opened his mouth but the words, now unleashed, were already pouring out of Din and he couldn’t stop them. _He couldn’t._

“He took him. Hurt him. It was entertaining for them to—” Din cut off, hating how choked and cold his own voice sounded; it was both distant and terribly emotional. “He wanted the kid in exchange for the map. The kid for the map. I couldn’t…”

Karga said nothing, and for the first time since the blasted conversation, Din was thankful for the man.

“He hit him and I…” Din’s voice broke and he looked away, only succeeding in meeting the kid’s round eyes, blinking up at him innocently. “I lost focus.”

There was something exposing and uncomfortable about that statement and Din could already feel himself drawing back, creating distance between that statement and himself.

“I didn’t think that was possible for your kind,” Karga murmured.

_Of course it was._

Din wasn’t ignorant. He knew about the ideas whispered about his people. There was this assumption of his people as _Other,_ that to be a Mandalorian meant to be something inhuman. _Unlike the rest of beingkind._ In some ways, this understanding was true. The Creed made the _other-ing_ so. Besides, Din had always been an outsider, even after swearing to the Creed. He was too regimented and controlled for civilian life, but he was also too aloof for the Tribe, who found identity in community.

And yet, Din felt the estrangement in a way he doubted the Creed intended. It showed itself in the way people openly stared, the way crowds parted for him (more so out of fear than out of honor), the way they asked him questions like — “What do you look like under there? Is there anyone there at all?”

It’d been even worse with Ran and the crew.

 _You’ve got war in your blood, Mando._ Xi’an had sneered to him years ago after a mission on Ione. _Don’t you feel it? It’s all over you. You can pretend to be a hero, but I know who you really are._ It had taken Din years to drown out her words, her laugh, _her voice_ from his ears; it took even longer for him to realize that Xi’an and the crew could be wrong, that he actually had the option not to believe their lies, that he wasn’t just the worst things he’d ever done.

But sometimes, he still wondered if he could ever be more than what he was? After all, it was easy for Ran and his assembled crew to associate him with mindless violence and stoicism when they’d prepared to spring Qin from prison. _You belong where the action is, Mando,_ Ran had clapped him on the back before he’d boarded the Crest. _You can only run so far before you come back home, back to your center. You were made for the fight._ At the end of the day, the collective message was a simple albeit familiar one: a Mandalorian was first and foremost a warrior. That was his identity, and he could never be more than some callous, stoic fighter.

But Din Djarin?

Din was a man burdened with more heart than he knew what to do with, and who was growing to love a child that wasn’t biologically his.

But that was a tale no one, not even Greef Karga, would believe. Because although Karga wasn’t _them_ —wasn’t Xi’an or Ran or anyone else who made him into something he wasn’t— the man still wouldn’t understand.

Karga knew Mando, but he didn’t know _Din._ Few did, and Din wanted to keep it that way.

So, he just answered, “Neither did I.”

“I see…” Karga nodded. “It must have been a slip of judgment, then.”

Din glanced down, watching the kid suckle happily around his knuckle.

“Yes,” Din lied. “That’s all it was.”

~*~

_Look again._

The charge came to Din steadily as he balanced the map between his knees and the navigation board, whilst the ship hovered over Coruscant. The city lights reflected off the Crest’s windshield, glimmering enough to beckon. Yet, Din’s eyes were on the map, searching for any details he had yet missed.

Din turned his attention to the Temple’s layout and already, the internal list he’d created cited off in his head, moving from the outside-in. Four assigned quarters, twelve wings, seven entrances (only one reserved for visitors), one Great Hall, a collection of mezzanines. _Next._ Four landing areas boardering several gardens, all of which surrounding the Temple’s spire. _Next._ The Formal Entrance. If Din started there, the entrance would most likely lead him to one of the main halls. It was as far as he’d need to go.

Still, Din couldn’t shake the distrustful feeling simmering under his skin. He’d received a map that contained just what he needed from a syndicate leader who was willing to pay him to take it off his hands. It all felt too… _easy_. Dangerous, even. Or maybe, it was just the location of the map’s contents that rattled him.

The Armorer had called the Jedi sorcerers. Enemies. Both terms were enough to set Din on edge and make him restock his ammunition. Or, in this case, make him scrutinize the map several times over.

“ _Buir.”_

Din’s undershirt jostled and he hurried to remove the blanket from on top of him, allowing the child’s head to poke through. The kid’s ears popped out first, then sleepy eyes blinked up at him, still glazed over.

“How did you sleep?” Din asked softly, thumbing the crust from the kid’s eyes.

The child let out a whine that could only mean he was either about to cry or devolve into one of his fussy-fits. Clearly, he hadn’t slept long enough.

Din only had himself to blame. He’d let the rugrat gobble-up a shitload of cookies and breads instead of actually feeding him a proper meal, and then put him down later than usual for his nap. The latter of which easily resulted in one of the kid’s worst meltdowns to date. In the end, it had taken Din rocking him for an hour for the womp rat to finally calm and doze off.

“Here,” Din said softly, reaching into his pocket and holding out a small space waffle.

The kid smushed the waffle in one chunky fist and pressed his face against Din’s chest wordlessly.

That couldn’t be a good sign.

“Do you want to sleep in your carrier?”

The child made a chirping noise and peeked one eye out from Din’s shirt. Din pointed at the carrier and it was enough to send the kid wailing.

“Okay, okay,” Din hushed as the kid scrambled up under his neck.

Obviously, that’d been the wrong offer, but so were many of the things Din did these days.

Did didn’t need to be reminded of his inexperience with caretaking (hell, Din barely scraped by caring for himself and even that was spotty at best on most days). He was paid to be a bounty hunter, not some nursemaid. Still, Din had made some strides. He had started to recognize when the kid was hungry, when he needed to be changed, and when he just wanted to annoy the hell out of Din. Those were the small, nevertheless significant, victories.

And yet, there were some aspects of caretaking, of tending to the kid, that mystified him.

Sometimes the child was moody as hell. One minute, he could be climbing on Din’s chest to play and the next, he could be dissolving into tears because Din gave him the clay cup instead of the steel one (Din didn’t understand what the difference was; they were both cups). Then, there were the times the kid wanted to be held and the times he didn’t; the times he’d whine for Din to play with him and the times he sulked in his carrier. The child’s emotions existed on extremes and Din, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out what the little womp rat wanted.

On the few days when Din wasn’t on the verge of tearing his own hair out, he wondered if he was going wrong somewhere? Or if the kid was finally outgrowing him? Those thoughts were somber enough and rarely ever did Din dwell on them (and when he did, he usually found himself tinkering with the broken guns in the lower level).

As always, they were taking two steps forward and ten steps back.

Din eyed the map once more before folding and tucking it into his pocket. It’d be best to keep it on him, just in case he forgot anything.

Shimming the kid down into his lap and, thankfully only hearing a whine of loss from the rugrat, Din activated the thrusters and steered the ship into the planet. The clouds parted, dissipating, and Din was immediately met with thousands of skyscrapers.

No matter how many times he visited Coruscant, Din knew he would never get used to the activity — the whizz of airspeeders and taxis racing through the skylane, the thrum of voices loud enough to drown the ship in one unified hum, the automated announcements dragging advertisements across the sky.

Coruscant was a stimulant for the senses and Din, who rarely felt overwhelmed, held his breath for a moment. He tended to avoid cosmopolitan areas if he could help it. They left him feeling too harried and more out of place than he normally did. So, the few times he had to track down a bounty through a city-like planet, he was usually in-and-out before the target could say, “Wait.”

Din forced the ship into a dive, slipping through the cracks that divided district by district. With 5,127 levels, the descent, even to Level 5,031, felt unending. As they approached, he eased up on the thrusters and guided the ship around a tall, cleaved-like complex.

_Well, they were here._

Din flicked on the comm receiver. It didn’t take long for the comm transmission to beep above him and for an all-too-familiar melodic voice to croon through the speakers.

“ _Is that the sound of a damsel in distress I hear?”_

Din stabbed the offloading sequences above him. “Cut the shit, Tilly, and open Bay 5.”

“Oh, how I’ve _missed_ you, Mando. You always were such an ass.”

Sighing, Din navigated the ship around the launch platform and prepped the feet for landing. A burst of air from the ship’s engines whooshed through the cockpit and the kid’s head jolted up from Din’s stomach, eyes scanning the ceiling.

“Boo _…_ ”

“It’s okay. We’re just landing,” Din reassured, slowly lowering the ship over the tarmac.

“The team should be waiting to work on your ship,” Tilly’s voice filtered through the speakers. “Just try not to scare them off again, y’hear me?”

Din merely grunted in response and flicked off the communicator, noting the shadows spilling across the switch. It had to be somewhere around evening time on Coruscant. That was a tricky time to be associating with Tilly and his crowd.

 _Still._ Din gathered up the child and, after making sure to collect the kid’s stuffie (just in case the womp rat decided to raise hell) and a set of pacifiers, he swiped his rifle and angled down to the lower level. Already, he could hear the buzz of voices swarming around his ship.

That was bound to sour Din’s mood.

He hit the release hatchet and immediately, Din was hit with, what could only be described as, functional pandemonium.

A swath of technicians scuttled around his ship, chittering to each other as they lugged technical pails. Various beings looking like highlanders tore apart shipment boxes along the sides of the landing. But the gold signets on their fingers told Din all he needed to know — they were Tilly’s goons.

And not one of them so much as glanced at Din when he stepped off the lift. Instead, the majority filtered off of the roof and down a corridor before Din could even stand in its middle.

A drop ship glided above them, sending a whoosh of air over the tarmac and Din felt claws tighten around his collar.

“Nho,” the kid whimpered, mouthing around the waffle wetly. “No, _buir._ ”

“I know it’s a lot.” Din angled his face down, letting the kid lean into his helmet. “I won’t keep you out here long.”

_At least, that was the hope._

It had been a while since Din had thought about Dantooine and yet, the planet’s rolling hills suddenly materialized in his mind. He could still hear the wind chimes, Aea’s soft giggles, Maisy’s sarcastic voice, the sound of Elgie’s newspaper. It struck him in that moment that he missed it, missed them. The peace he’d experienced there seemed like a distant dream compared to Coruscant’s pace. And yet, their travels had led them here, and Din only wondered what they’d find.

“You got old.”

Din turned and found himself standing in front of one of the most annoying cross-breeded sentients in the universe.

“Tilly. You got…” Din took in the stark-white hair, fluttery wings, and glowing skin. “Shorter.”

 _Blinding_ would have been more like it, but Din wasn’t trying to flatter the creature — not when Tilly was the kind to flirt with everything that breathed. He was also the kind to put a bullet in your skull, only to nurse your dead corpse back to life later because he missed the conversation. To him, life was a game of wits and judging by the twisted smirk on his face, Din had greeted him just right.

“Don’t try to be funny, Mando. It doesn’t suit you.”

He flew close enough for Din to see the runes etched into his face, but Tilly hardly paid the proximity any attention, too busy surveying the kid. The child, stars bless him, actually peeked out from underneath Din’s collar and stared back.

“And got busy,” Tilly mused, alien-esque eyes squinting at the kid. “The hell did you have a sprog for?”

“It’s complicated,” Din replied, earning him a brow-raise from the creature.

“Well, it ain’t cute,” Tilly remarked, wings betraying his supposed lack of interest. They twitched, the silver color melting into a muted lavender.

The child drew the spit-slathered waffle from his mouth and waved it at him.

“Buh!”

Tilly had the nerve to actually look borderline endeared.

“Well, the sprog is definitely—” Knowing eyes snapped up at Din. “You manipulative son of a bitch.”

“You owe me a favor.”

“And yet, you con me with a baby.”

“The favor involves the child but yes, he is also insurance,” Din explained unapologetically.

Tilly was as slippery of a con-artist as they came and Din wasn’t interested in taking chances — not when the situation could work to his favor. He’d told Tilly about the mission to the Temple, but he hadn’t told him about the kid. To do so would have been too much of a gamble. So, Din had come up with a failsafe plan and by the looks of it, even Tilly knew that.

“This is a new low, even for you.” Tilly’s wings turned the ugliest green Din had ever seen. “Using my own weakness against me, are you?”

“Your people revere children.”

“They ain’t _my_ people!” Tilly retorted, wings morphing red. _Well, it never took much to make him mad._ “I’m nothing like that pansy lot and if that damn sprout of yours weren’t here, I’d show you just how much—”

“Tinnë, you bastard!”

A roar sounded from the corridor to their left and Din whipped around, just in time to see a man tackled to the ground by Tilly’s goons. He looked like most of the outlaws Din had seen slinking around in the undercity — the same sickly complexion and bleary eyes — and at the moment, he looked about ready to rip Tilly a new one.

“Oh, don’t mind him.” Tilly waved the scene away. “He’s just on his way out.”

“You’ll get what’s coming to you, Tinnë! You mark my words!” 

“Of course, of course.” Tilly threw him a smile. “If there is any justice in the universe. And we all know how likely that is…”

Din watched as the man was yanked down the corridor, his cries diminishing with him.

“Do you enjoy pissing off everyone you meet?”

“Well, I did learn from the best.” Tilly winked at him.

Din grimaced. “I should have left you to rot.”

“Oh, but you’re much too soft-hearted for that,” Tilly purred, grinning something wicked. “Besides, would you really have left such a benevolent Angel in the clutches of the slave trade?”

_If Din had known Tilly would be such a demon — yes._

To say, it’d been a surprise when Din had discovered that Tilly was nothing like the typical Diathim was to put it lightly. Diathims, otherwise known as “the Angels of the Galaxy,” were good-natured, virtuous, kind, not-too-hard-on-the-eyes, and undoubtedly _female._ Tilly, on the other hand, could easily have been a runner up for the devil’s spawn.

“I think I’ve made something wonderful of myself since then, don’t you think?” Tilly glowed brighter.

“Ooo,” the child cooed, eyes rounding in a way Din recognized.

“Tilly,” Din warned. “Drop the aura.”

Tilly sucked his teeth. “Just because _you_ aren’t a sight for sore eyes, doesn’t mean I have to be,” but otherwise diminished the hypnotic glamour.

“Besides,” he added. “I can’t help it if your chickie likes the way I look.”

As if on cue, the kid bounced in Din’s arms and made to grab the light aura radiating off the creature.

“See?” Tilly practically beamed. “I am the epitome of goodness and you know what they say about kids being a right judge of character and all that.”

Din frowned. “You’re a drug lord.”

“I like to think of myself as a culinary artist.”

“And a thief.”

“Thief is a subjective term.”

“So, you _subjectively_ stole a Tusken Rifle?”

“You know about that?” Tilly asked, actually looking impressed.

He hummed and conjured up a handful of dust-light, sprinkling it over the kid. The child cooed and batted at them, sending the snowball-like particles floating in the air.

“I’m learning to bake, y’know,” Tilly said for no reason apparent to Din.

The creature flicked his wrist and spark flares burst into the air, eliciting a gasp from the kid. The child strained against Din’s arms, hurrying to capture the tiny fireworks in his hands.

“I don’t care.”

Tilly huffed, turning to him. “Oh, stop pretending to hate me. I made you a bloody cake. Try to be grateful, would you.”

“It’s probably laced,” Din grumbled.

“Of course it’s laced.”

_Typical._

Tilly straightened and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, the child was bouncing on his own hip.

Din started. “If you even think about hurting him—”

“Oh, stop being such a helicopter parent, Mando. I just wanna hold the little tyke.” Tilly rolled his eyes and leaned in to sniff the child. Almost instantly, he recoiled, a violent tremor running through his wings. “Now, put that goddamn gun away and tell me who’s after the kid?”

Din hadn’t even realized he’d drawn on him. “What—”

“Where’s ‘e been taking you, huh? The danger spillin’ off you is enough to reek,” Tilly murmured to the child, still sniffing around his neck. The kid giggled, struggling under Tilly’s ministrations and Din made a mental note. _So — ticklish._

“You can _smell_ he’s in danger?”

Tilly gave him a look that could have called Din stupid in ten different languages. “Obviously.”

As if that was supposed to mean anything to Din.

“ _Humans._ Y’meet one and you’ve met ‘im all,” Tilly huffed, shaking his head. He took a step forward. “What do you see under my nose?”

Din tilted his head. “Nothing.”

“Look again.”

Sure enough, a set of tiny slits —almost too small for the naked eye — hid under the bridge of Tilly’s nose.

“My kind —as you so beautifully put it— call them _c_ _â_ _lla_. Your people understand them as double olfactory senses.” Tilly named. “Gives me the ability to pick up on others’ mental sensations, among other things.”

“So, you can smell emotions?”

“I’m a Diathim, not a damn empath.” Tilly glared. “Emotions aren’t abstract; they show up in the body. Think — a high-class communication system. All I can do is read minute scents, usually undetected by the human nose, and bodily reactions that _indicate_ an emotion.”

Din blinked at him.

“You think I’m pulling your leg,” Tilly surmised and he wasn’t wrong.

Din had seen enough of Tilly’s tricks to disbelieve most of what the creature told him.

Tilly smirked. “The chickie smells of sulfur, but it’s faint which means you visited a planet with volcanic activity weeks ago. Still, it’s strong enough to cling to the babe’s skin after all this time, so the planet’s lava must be older than dirt. Could be Prakith, but you tend to prefer the Outer Rim over Deep Core. Thus, somewhere in the outer reaches…” Tilly hummed and inhaled again. “There’s something chlorinic about the base scent, which is typical of old lava flats. So — Nevarro, maybe? There’s also that oily odor that only biba trees can emit, but that’s easy: you made a pit stop somewhere. But _oh —_ what really interests me is that delicious whiff of refined ionite. Just as old as the sulfur, so also Nevarro. Gun fight, perhaps?

Din said nothing, but that didn’t stop Tilly from narrowing his eyes and scanning him like he was another one of his puzzles.

“No…but close. If it’s refined then that means it was used for a large weapon, something powerful enough to be explosive. Expensive, then too. The only lot to have money like that would be…” Tilly cupped his chin, pretending to think. “Well, what do you know — Imperial. And as I thought before — danger.”

“Are you done?” Din grunted.

“Not quite. There’s also the flatness in your own scent, which tells me you’re annoyed with me right now —a pity as I so hoped to impress you— and the overproduction of saliva caking the chickie’s mouth which means he either wants to eat me or it’s his feeding time. Then again, I haven’t even _mentioned_ the smell of blood on you, the god-awful disinfectant stench that only a new med-pac could possess, the anxious sweat layered on the kid’s skin, the bite of old ink, and on and on the story goes — _Should. I. Go. On?_ ”

Tilly looked so damn smug that Din almost considered saying nothing just to spite him.

In the end, Din simply deposited his blaster and asked lowly,“What do you know about Moff Gideon?”

“Moff— Tilly started and then a slow, wry smile spread across his lips. “ _Oh_ , _Mando._ The trouble you get into could make my poor black heart sing.”

Din scowled and turned his focus instead to the kid, currently cooing at Tilly’s most-likely-stolen pendants.

“What’s his sort want the babe for?” Tilly asked, the twitch of his jaw betraying the nonchalance in his voice.

“The kid…He’s not just a child.”

“You sure? Smells like one to me. When’s the last time you changed ‘im?”

“Not the point,” Din grumbled. “Will you help or not?”

Tilly’s eyes gleamed, looking split between interest, mirth, and murderous intent (but then again, Tilly always looked like that). Din knew the creature was weighing the dangers with his own self-interest, as if determining his next move on a chess board.

“Hm.”

Tilly smiled sweetly and whipped out a gun. Din just barely side-stepped the flare.

“The fuck, Tilly!”

“ _Language_. For goodness sake, Mando, there’s a baby in the room. Show some decorum,” Tilly had the nerve to scold, then wink. “Had to be sure you could keep up. Still. Not bad for an old man.”

“I could kill you for that.”

Tilly’s wings actually fluttered with interest. “Now, _that_ would be a treat.”

Din wanted to choke the living daylights out of him.

Tilly snapped his fingers and suddenly, the kid was back bouncing in Din’s arms, sporting a nauseating amount of shimmer and smelling of candlewick flowers.

“What makes you think I can get you in?” Tilly asked, actually sounding interested.

“I didn’t ask you to get me in. I asked you to give me enough coverage to slip through the public square undetected.”

“And then what?”

“Then, you take your money and go,” Din replied dispassionately.

Tilly huffed. “For someone so smart, you’re incredibly dense. You take one step into that building and those high-and-mighties won’t hesitate to off you.”

“Why do you care?”

“Let’s just say I’ve started a brief liaison —with a very lucrative customer might I add—and I don’t want you disrupting the trade. That fortress-of-a-temple is already guarded enough as it is. You step in there and you’ll close the deal before I can even count my zeroes.”

Din shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course it came down to money.

“I don’t want your help. They’ll see you and—”

_Stars above._

Tilly grinned. “Bingo.”

Because Tilly —as much of a pain in the ass as he was— was still a Diathim and Diathims were trusted everywhere.

“Luckily for you, the Jedi view my kind as a sign of good peace and innocence,” Tilly said. “I can get you in — and of course, they’ll trust me because I’m… _well_ me. They won’t treat you as a threat, well maybe, but my presence will ease the exchange because after all, what damage could an Angel possibly do?”

 _A considerable amount, apparently._ It was no mystery why Tilly had been able to lead one of the most successful drug systems without getting caught. No one in their right mind would accuse his kind of criminal activity.

“It’s quite simple really,” Tilly hummed, dangling a materialized bead-string over the kid. The child squealed and batted at it, sending the beads swinging like a pendulum. “I save your ungrateful ass by getting you an entrance, my business stays intact, and we all go home with joy in our hearts.”

It was a secure plan, almost lock-tight and that told Din all he needed to know.

“You planned this.”

“And why, pray tell, would I possibly do that?” Tilly asked coyly.

Din held his stare, torn between abandoning the deal entirely and bringing up every single one of Tilly’s past infractions to prove his compulsive mischief. One could never really know what the creature had up his sleeve and Din wasn’t so sure he wanted to find out.

“I’ll get you there but after that, you’re on your own. If things go south, Mando, don’t expect me to help you out.” Tilly spun on his heel, leaving twinkling lights dancing behind him. “Well, come along then. We’ve got a Temple to break into.”

~*~

“I’ve gotta say, I expected a bit more —I dunno— fanfare. I mean, I know we haven’t seen each other in like ten years—”

“Seven.”

“— _ten years,_ but where’s the reunion symphony?” Tilly pouted. “I mean, you don’t call, you don’t write. Then, you waltz back in here looking like a glorified garbage can and just expect me to swoon over your boring self and help you. I have standards, y’know.”

Din looked at him.

“ _Kidding_ ,” Tilly laughed in a way that let Din know he wasn’t.

Tilly angled around a corner, leading them up a flight of stairs within the Temple District’s underground sewer system. They’d been walking for hours and though Din didn’t particularly mind the distance, he did mind Tilly’s incessant chatter which unfortunately hadn’t ceased since they’d left the tower.

“Then again, you were always one to exploit an opportunity.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only when I’m sleeping.” Tilly winked over his shoulder.

“You don’t need sleep.”

“Exactly!”

If they didn’t reach the Temple soon, Din might just actually give the creature a permanent sleeping situation — six feet under.

Old lamp lights sparked and fizzled along the walls, providing just enough light for Din to make out Tilly’s outline as he tracked him. The stairs evened out and immediately, when Din hit the landing, the stench of stale water filled the inside of his helmet.

According to Tilly, the district’s sewer system had been abandoned ages ago, in favor of some anodic innovation that reprocessed waste, converting it into clean energy. It sounded promising, but Din knew otherwise. Rather than alter the existing sewer system, the federal bureau re-directed the unprocessed waste to the lower levels where the “bottom feeders” dwelled (it was just a distasteful way of calling them poor people).

A steady drip-drop of water echoed from the concrete, the only sound in the tunnel. Din was thankful Tilly had taken the hint and quieted, preferring instead to entertain the kid by putting on a color show with his wings.

At first, Din had refused to let Tilly so much as touch the child, despite the man’s pleadings. Din didn’t want to take any chances (though the probability of the creature harming the kid were slim to none). But then, Tilly started charming the child right out of Din’s hands and protest, at that point, was useless.

“What are you doing?” Din asked, watching Tilly make several gestures across his face at the child. The kid, interestingly enough, was copying him.

Tilly barely spared him a glance. “M’teaching him symbols.”

Tilly rapped his fist against his forehead and said, “Idiot,” and the child, giggling, mimicked him.

“Don’t teach him that,” Din ordered.

“Fine.” Tilly angled his thumb and pointed it at his mouth.

“What’re you teaching him now?”

“The symbol for beer.”

Din fought the urge to sigh. Stars knew what else the creature had taught the little womp rat when he wasn’t paying attention.

“He’s a quick study,” Tilly commented. “Or maybe it’s just because he’s learnin’ from me and not from you.”

Din grumbled underneath his breath but otherwise said nothing as Tilly continued on murmuring to the child a number of words that Din would need to un-teach the kid later (he definitely didn’t want the kid gesturing _bastard_ to every one they walked past).

Water trickled down from the pipe, dripping onto Din’s viewfinder and he peered up, noting a particularly large pipe trailing over their heads and winding down the channel. It disappeared into the darkness, leading somewhere that Din hoped they wouldn’t have to go.

Tilly took a sharp left and then came to a halt.

“Why are we stopping?”

Din surveyed the number of brick archways lining the walls. There had to be at least ten of them in the tunnel.

Tilly turned to him, eyes glinting.

“Because we’re here.”

He handed Din the child and kicked aside a pile of rocks blocking one of the archways. As soon as they were cleared away, Tilly started down the passage, drawing Din to follow. It smelled sour inside like something had fermented within the archway, and yet it also felt hot enough for Din’s underarmor to cling to his skin.There were no lamp lights along the walls and if it were not for the bioluminescence from Tilly’s wings, Din was fairly sure neither of them would be able to see a thing.

After a few minutes, Tilly slowed, crowding up against one of the walls.

“If my memory serves me correctly,” Tilly said, feeling along the stone. “There should be opening, somewhere around— _Ah_!”

Tilly yanked something from the wall and instantly, orange light filtered into the passage.

“Well, come along then,” Tilly beckoned, stooping half-way through the jagged opening. “A’int no time like the present.”

Din stepped through and found himself standing in a spacious entrance hall.

 _The Formal Hall,_ his memory corrected. The first thought that came to Din was that the room was emptier than he’d expected. He’d at least have thought that there’d be people wandering around. _Unusual,_ Din thought, scanning around the room. It was plainer than he’d imagined. He’d expected it to be opulent, grand, or at least, showy (the name suggested as such), but there was no rolled out carpentry, no statues, no memorabilia. Only eight blue-painted pillars beside empty walls that looked singed, or at least, damaged.

Din set the kid down on the ground and wandered in further, leaving Tilly to replace the paneling behind them. The child waddled after him, almost stumbling to latch onto Din’s pant leg, staying close.

After all it took to get them here, Din felt strangely underwhelmed.

“What are you doing here?”

A figure materialized as if forming out of one of the pillars. But no, they were dressed in robes tan enough to blend into the structure.

Din didn’t know how long they’d been standing there, but almost immediately he was picking the kid up, hand hovering over his blaster.

Tilly sidled up close beside him, murmuring, “Let me handle this,” as the figure approached them. A mask, white like ivory, covered their face, only leaving two small slits for the eyes.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” Tilly asked, voice morphing into something meek and unassuming. Din had to refrain from doing a double take. It was like he was hearing another person.

“You have my apologies, Diathim,” the guard bowed, voice even-toned and decidedly male. “But I cannot permit your entrance. I must ask you to leave—

Tilly angled around Din and stepped in front of the guard.

“ _It would be awfully cruel to make us leave, especially after coming all this way.”_

Din frowned, thrown by the sudden change in Tilly’s voice. It was unfamiliar, like it had an entrancing silk to it, smooth enough to liquify.

_Or hypnotize._

“What are you doing?” Din hissed, realizing.

Tilly didn’t so much as glance at him. Din knew he couldn’t — not while he was using his charm on the guard. He had to maintain eye contact.

The guard swallowed. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t…I mean I’d never—”

“ _Of course. That’s why you don’t want to see us leave.”_

“I—I don’t want to see you leave.”

_“In fact, we should stay a while.”_

“You might as well stay.”

“ _You’re actually quite thankful you found us first. Otherwise, who could have come to our rescue? We were terribly lost until you came around.”_

“I’m glad I discovered you two. I’d be remiss to know what might’ve happened if I hadn’t stumbled upon you.”

Din fought the urge to bang his head against the wall. _Stars,_ this was painful to watch. 

Tilly’s eyes flashed gold and the guard sucked in a breath. “ _Who’s in charge here?”_

“Ma…Master Terra Syko,” the man strained to say as if pained.

_“You will grant us a meeting with them.”_

“I will—”

“ _And you’ll tell them that you permitted the entrance as these are…extenuating circumstances.”_

“These are eventuating circumstances,” the guard echoed.

_“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”_

Tilly waved his hand and the guard stumbled back, catching himself on his pike. He pressed a hand to his head and glanced up, regarding them as if for the first time.

“Who—”

“Thank goodness,” Tilly gushed in mock-relief, all the allure gone from his voice. “I thought you had spaced out on us for a moment there, Captain. You promised to take us to Master Syko…for the child’s sake.”

The guard glanced between Din, the child, and Tilly, seeming surprised. Apparently, they weren’t supposed to know _that_ name.

“The Master is not accepting…visitors.” His focus settled on Din, sending an obvious message.

“But you yourself said these were extenuating circumstances. You urged us to stay. Are you now asking us to leave?” Tilly implored, deepening his aura meaningfully.

“Of course not,” the man replied swiftly, voice softer. He cleared his throat and eyed Din. “But the Mandalorian—”

“He found the child among the wreckage on Abafar and brought him to me. I could think of no place to bring the boy but here, especially in light of his powers.”

Din hid his surprise, even while his mind raced. _How the hell did Tilly know?_

“The Mandalorian means no harm, I assure you. He is a friend. I just…didn’t know what else to do,” Tilly said.

The guard appraised Din. “Interesting company you keep.”

“There is good in all of us. It just takes discerning eyes to see it,” Tilly’s voice was sweet enough to poison and for a moment, Din was glad that his helmet could hide his grimace.

“Come,” the man beckoned after a while. “I will take you to her.”

The guard picked up his pike and started down the aisle. Almost immediately, Tilly whipped around to Din, eyes dancing with mirth.

“Sucker,” he mouthed.

The creature made to follow the guard, but Din snatched him by the arm.

“Why did you do that?”

“I’d keep my voice down if I were you.”

“You said you were leaving,” Din said, though lowering his voice considerably.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The chap just told us to—”

Din tightened his hold. “You said you didn’t care if things went south.”

“And I don’t,” Tilly bit out, slipping his arm from Din’s grip and continuing on.

Din grumbled but otherwise followed him, stalking down the dark hall.

“We’re not friends,” Din grunted after a beat of silence.

“ _Please,_ ” Tilly snorted. “I’d rather be tortured.”

The guard led them up a steep, winding staircase. It wrapped around a thick pillar, trailing higher until Din could feel the air grow thin. The steps evened out and the guard re-directed them to a carpeted hall.

“How’d you know about the kid?” Din whispered after the guard turned a corner.

“Call it a wild guess,” Tilly hummed. “Mysterious child…danger from Imperials…Jedi Temple. Only a simpleton would miss something so obvious.”

The guard stopped in front of a set of grand double-doors.

“You will wait in here,” he directed, opening one of the doors.

Din stepped through, pausing when he noticed Tilly hanging back.

“I will be taking my leave,” Tilly announced with _that-_ voice, speaking so softly Din had to strain to hear him. “But I do wish you fair encounters, dear friend. I have other pressing matters to attend to. You understand, of course.”

If it hadn’t been for the glint in the creature’s eyes, Din wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss. As things were, he could easily recognize that look from a mile away. _Fucking hell_. _Tilly was going to go rob something again._

Before Din could even think of a response, he was ushered inside, the door closing firm behind him.

And then, he was alone.

A low-burning fire crackled in the corner of the room, lilting the air with scents of wood-burning cedar and char. _Strange,_ Din mulled, setting the child on the ground. Burning firewood was considered by most Coruscantians to be Old World, especially for top-level dwellers. It was too messy and inefficient. After all, why dirty one’s own hands building a fire when a thermoheater was readily available? Yet, Din had a feeling the owner of this room would say differently. Firewood was neatly stacked in the corner and the person had also taken care to add a bellows.

The child made for the fireplace, babbling under his breath as he waddled close to the flames. Din was already hurrying after him.

“Don’t touch—”

But the kid simply plopped down on the carpet and held his hands out, feeling the fire’s warmth. Din stilled behind him, no longer feeling the need to intercept the kid, but still hovering out of caution.

“Boo!” The child grinned, holding up his warm hands to Din.

“I see.”

The kid regarded his hands with a look of wonder before holding them back out to the fire. Din smiled and leaned against a nearby wall, gaze soon slipping past the child and returning to the room’s contents.

There was something sedative about the room. The curtains were drawn, pronouncing the light from the spindle-wheel of candles hovering over the room. They provided a soft glow, almost shrouding the room in a burnt orange color. Hot wax dripped down the sticks, leaving solidified drops on the hardwood, but apparently the owner didn’t seem to mind based on the number of faded marks on the floor.

Din could barely hear the incessant buzz of airtraffic zipping through the skyline. Instead, something like a lullaby chimed softly from a music box, bathing the quiet in a kind of haze. The room felt intimate and non-threatening, much to Din’s relief. It hardly felt like the meeting place for his enemy. Neither did it seem like the kind of place to be struck down. The owner was more likely to lull Din to sleep than provoke him.

Still, Din couldn’t get his body to relax. He could feel the tension in his shoulders — the byproduct of not knowing what to expect from this _Master Syko._ Thankfully, he didn’t have to venture far to guess what the Jedi might think of him. He didn’t belong in their Temple. Their people shared a bloody history.

Nonetheless, this was Din’s duty and he wanted to start off on the right foot. If the information the Armorer had spoken was correct, then the Jedi were formidable enemies. Though that was enough to put Din on-edge, such news also commanded his respect. It wouldn’t do to make an ass out of himself (at least, not during the first greeting). He had to win the Jedis’ trust, as frail and shaky as it might be, if he wanted to persuade them to welcome the child. Thus, he needed to explain the child’s strange abilities _and_ show how semi-well-behaved the kid could be. As long as that plan was executed perfectly, the Jedi just might—

Something clattered onto the floor and Din jolted up from the wall, eyes searching for the child. The kid blinked up at him innocently, munching on some kind of powdery tart.

“What’re you—?” Din started, then sighed as he took in the triangular-shaped desserts laying broken at the kid’s feet.

It didn’t help that jelly from the treats had now seeped its way into the carpet. How the hell was Din supposed to clean that up?

“Don’t eat that,” Din said even as the child took a bite, cheeks engorged. He huffed and finally conceded, “One and you’re done, you hear me?”

The child reached inside his sleeve and pulled out another tart and Din all but gave up. _What was the point?_ He gathered up the discarded desserts and tossed them onto the silver platter, hiding the contents under a chair where the womp rat would be unlikely to find them.

“ _Buir_.”

Din glanced up to find a half-eaten tart in his face. The pastry was almost completely smushed between the kid’s claws, dripping jelly onto the floor. The child chirped, looking expectantly between Din and the dessert.

Din nudged the tart towards the kid. “Why don’t you eat it for me?”

The child eyed him dubiously before finally popping the rest of the dessert into his mouth, smearing jelly and powder across his cheeks. _A baby with a sweet tooth._ Din blamed it on the cookies for creating the child’s fixation. Sighing, Din gathered the sleeve of his shirt around his glove and mostly failed to wipe the kid’s mouth. The little womp rat whined and slipped out from under his hands, now interested in the basket of yarn near the fireplace.

“Put it down,” Din chided as the child picked up a ball of yarn that was almost as big as himself.

Din didn’t think it was possible for a child to get into so many things in the span of minutes. The last thing he wanted was for the Jedi to walk in and find their room trashed because the kid couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

“Buh!” The kid held up the yarn.

Din snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor.

The kid’s ears drooped, the ball of yarn falling with them. He chirped under his breath —in a manner that sounded unusually like talk-back— but otherwise obeyed. The yarn bounced on the ground, almost rolling away. And suddenly, the child looked far more interested than he should — ears perking up as he watched the yarn bounce then settle. His eyes flickered back up to Din.

 _Stars above._ “Leave it.”

But the kid was already picking up the ball and dropping it on the floor, picking it up and dropping it on the floor, picking it up and dropping it on the floor until Din couldn’t take the mindless repetition any more.

“Hey,” Din called, finally causing the kid to pause the action. “It’s not one of your toys. Don’t do that.”

The child whined and plopped onto the floor, holding the yarn between his legs. He stared at Din for a while as if considering. Then, timidly, he pushed the ball towards Din.

Din rolled it back to him. “Put it in the basket.”

The kid pushed the yarn to him.

“No.” Din nudged it away.

The child near-squealed, clearly not hearing him (or simply not caring), and rolled the ball right back.

“We’re not playing right now.” The yarn-ball trailed back to the kid. “We’ll be meeting someone soon. This isn’t the time to—”

The child chirped happily and shoved the yarn towards Din.

“Buh!”

Din sighed and rested his arms on his thighs. He could easily put the yarn away himself. It’d probably cost him less exasperation that way too. But he was trying to get the kid into the habit of picking up after himself. On the ship, the little womp rat had no problem ruffling through boxes, ripping maps and papers into shreds, and leaving abandoned knobs everywhere without ever picking them up. So, Din had resorted to teaching the child to put away his things. In times like these, though, he almost considered abandoning his efforts altogether.

“We’ve talked about this,” Din tried to reason. “You don’t touch things that don’t belong to you. Now, put it back.”

The child giggled and shoved the yarn harder this time. The ball sailed towards Din just about the same time the kid stumbled, slipping on a loose string. A loud _thud_ echoed around the room.

The kid’s head popped up and wide, confused eyes met Din’s. And then, a sniffle escaped him.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Din urged softly, but the child was already rubbing at his eyes, looking about ready to wail. Hurriedly, Din scrambled around him and snatched the yarn. “You wanted to play, right?”

The kid whimpered, but otherwise stopped rubbing his eyes.

Din took that as a good sign and nudged the yarn to him experimentally. The child eyed the ball, clearly dubious and batted it back and forth.

“You’re okay,” Din soothed.

The kid looked intently at him and then finally rolled the yarn back.

And that was how Din found himself sitting on the floor, being sucked into another one of the child’s games.

It was hardly a game, if you asked Din. They were just rolling a ball of yarn back and forth, but the kid seemed to like it enough. He kept chirping in that high-pitched intone that Din had come to recognize as happiness. Then again, the child tended to turn everything into a game somehow, which often left Din dumbfounded. He wasn’t so bold as to call it resiliency (he didn’t even know if the kid realized they were constantly being hunted), but he did wonder if the child’s perpetual play was another one of his abilities (like when he could move things with his mind)? Because, no matter how often they had to pick up and leave or hop from planet-to-planet, the kid responded with play. He colored on the ship’s floor (much to Din’s disdain), dropped pebbles he’d collected on Dantooine in Din’s cups (apparently for the sound effect),stacked the food-stuff packets together (only to knock it down a second after), and created waves in the bath water (Din was convinced it was because the kid wanted to drench him).

It was weird, to put it lightly. And yet, Din secretly hoped the child wouldn’t change. He preferred the kid’s ignorance; at least it was better than the kid fearing for his life or looking over his shoulder for Gideon and his troops. As much as was possible, Din wanted to protect the child’s innocence and these games he liked to play. Life on the run didn’t afford them the opportunity to keep much besides the ship and basic necessities. They could never possess things like safety, security, and the monotonous rhythm of the mundane. Din doubted they could ever own a home, or rolling fields, or even a kitchen table. But the games were _theirs_.

Somewhere along the way, they’d established a rhythm of sorts to respond to the chaos — Din, by cleaning his guns and the kid, by drawing him pictures. And Din kept those pictures-more-like-scribbles tacked to the wall in his bunk (mostly because he didn’t know what else to do with them, and partly because he might have been somewhat proud). Most of the time, he forgot the drawings hung on his wall. Then, there were those nights when he couldn’t sleep and he found himself staring at them. In those moments, Din was especially in awe of the kid and his ability to create something so colorful in the midst of such darkness and violence.

A low wheeze snatched him out of his thoughts and absentmindedly, Din groped for the ball of yarn only to come up empty-handed. He glanced up and found the child drooling on the yarn, seconds from falling asleep.

The smile that slipped across Din’s lips was so easy he almost didn’t feel it.

Standing, Din scooped him up, earning a noncommittal whine from the child. He edged around one of the chairs and leaned against the wall, lulling the kid back to sleep.

He eyed the arch windows, noting the dying sun slipping under the horizon. _It was getting late._ He’d have thought the Jedi would have appeared by now.

The door flung open, banging against the wall, and Din half-expected to see the so-called Master Syko. Unfortunately, it was just Tilly.

“What are you still doing here?” Din sighed, not even sparing him a glance.

The creature sailed across the room and snatched him by the arm. The yellow in his wings was bleeding out into black.

“We need to go _now_!”

“ _You_ need to go. You said you were leaving,” Din said, grimacing as he felt the child stir against him.

“Dammit, Mando. There’s no time to—”

“I’d say it is a _pleasure_ to meet again, but in a few moments, I imagine our meeting will be anything but pleasurable.”

Din felt his blood chill. He could recognize that diplomatic voice anywhere.

A figure stepped in the doorway.

 _Gideon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSYCH-CORNER WITH DIN
> 
> Children are incredibly hard to depict realistically in fiction. Oftentimes, I think we underestimate just how much — making them into just cutesy characters, instead of nuanced, intelligent beings. For the Child, I really wanted to emphasize realism — describing the kid in a way that’s realistic and believable. I’ve decided to sandwich his development between 1-2 (human) years old. This means he should be talking (albeit strained, incomplete words/sentences) and exercising his independence or autonomy. His mood/emotions should also exist on extremes, and he should be doing activities that would test Din’s patience (because the Child is exploring and testing his environment). 
> 
> As an aside, I truly believe the Child intuits that those who have taken him only wanted him for something -- money, his powers, to extract something from his body (aka. the Imperial Client). But then, there's Din, who gives him permission to be a kid without expecting him to be anything else (e.g. in Episode Eight of the Disney+ series, Din doesn't once ask the kid to use the Force, even after he realizes what the child can do). In essence, Din lets the kid BE, and there's a beauty to that.
> 
> Also, although this story surrounds and is driven by the Child’s separation anxiety, I didn’t want to make the whole storyline about the kid’s attachment struggles, while Din just serves as some “super-dad” who always knows how to handle him. Parenting is not static, and I wanted to emphasize BOTH the Child’s anxiety and Din’s growth. For Din to be able to address the kid’s anxiety, he would also need to grow not only as a caregiver, but as a parent. It is my belief that parenting is just about a person (the caregiver) being parented all over again. In other words, though the parent is caring for the child, they also have to tap into their own childhood in order to nurture their kid. For this reason, the story heavily emphasizes character and psychological development on both Din and the Child’s parts (otherwise, Din would be portrayed as this perfect-parent from the get-go with little need to grow). I truly believe the beauty of Din’s and the Child’s relationship is how they grow together.


	8. The Breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially back from the dead.
> 
> Major apologizes for my absence y'all. I started having chronic migraines due to too much screen-time, as well as other health issues, and had to take a step back from this story. Regardless, I am officially back and will return to posting regularly. In other news, the Mandalorian Season 2 is out and 2020 is officially saved.
> 
> As a side note, somehow we're at 11k hits with only 8 chapters. Y'all are unreal. You are gems. I refuse to stop thanking you all for your support, readership, and commitment to this story. Thank you for continuing to believe in the heart of this fic. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy this new installment.

“Your pronounced surprise is telling.”

The floorboards creaked under Gideon’s boots as he stalked towards them. Instinctively, Din took a step back, grip tightening on the kid. The ISB officer regarded the movement with a pitying amusement.

“I must commend you on your attempts to evade capture. Your efforts are admirable. Still, in the end—” Gideon came to a halt. “You have failed all the same.”

Gideon’s eyes shifted to Tilly. “Hm.”

A shot rang out, and Din’s gun was in his hand in an instant. The child jolted out of his sleep just as Tilly dropped to his knees.

“Shit!” Tilly cursed, clutching his arm. Or, what was left of it...

Blood, clear enough to be water, spilled through Tilly’s fingers. Din didn’t need to look further. He knew singed flesh when he smelled it. Blaster beams cauterized ligaments. There was no coming back from those.

But leaving Tilly alive…? That, Din didn’t understand. Why wound him when the officer could just kill him?

“Ah—” Gideon trained his blaster on Din, eying the gun in his hand. “There will be no need for that. As you will soon discover, you are more than adequately outnumbered.”

Din eyed the door wordlessly, but found the entrance still empty. Only Tilly’s breathless pants cut through the silence.

“What do you know about the faction you seek?” Gideon asked. “Judging by your naïveté, I suspect very little.”

“Boo…” The kid mouthed anxiously at his neck.

Din scanned the room, cataloging the only two escape routes: one through the door —impossible considering the angle of Gideon’s body— and the windows.

“Your ignorance has betrayed you.” Gideon’s eyes slipped over to Tilly. “As have others.”

Din’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“I can assure you, it was no implication. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Tinnë?”

A sinking feeling filled Din’s gut as he eyed Tilly. The creature’s wings twitched behind him and Din watched as the wet-looking blue color started to bleed into grey.

He’d only seen the color once before, years ago, when they’d infiltrated an amaralite bust. Someone had leaked the point-information and strapped the grot with gas bombs. It was only later when Din found out that Tilly knew, and chose to risk their lives anyway. In the end, it didn’t matter. They were the only two to survive. Tilly’s men —two of which were damn-near close enough to be his family— died.

His greed had always cost lives — that was hardly anything new — just not the ones he cared about most. Tilly’s goons back at the base thought the grey in his wings was a sign of mourning, but Din knew different. Tilly didn’t do grief, but he did feel regret.

Realization clicked and yet, it was his own lack of surprise that surprised Din the most.

“A pity, I’m sure,” Gideon said emptily. “To be deceived by a trusted friend is, as they say, a double-edged blade.”

The air burned with the smell of dying candlewick flowers and Din pretended he didn’t notice.

“We’re not friends.”

“No.” The smile Gideon gave him was condolatory. “I suppose you are not.”

Gideon hummed, surveying the walls, the carpentry, the chandelier. Din eyed the windows again. The room was easily a hundred stories up from the city. Doable with his jetpack, but nevertheless dicey. He’d have to turn his back to get a running start, leaving the main unit vulnerable. Gideon would take advantage of that.

“Do you know how a Diathim is able to charm their victims?” Gideon asked cryptically. “Trust. One ounce of trust and they can make palaces out of phantasms.”

“Man…Mando—”

Din clicked off the safety on his gun and Tilly fell silent.

“Tell me, what did the Temple smell like when you first arrived? Can you remember? Or these…treats—” Gideon kicked the tray away with his boot. “Did you sample them yourself?”

The child’s claws dug into Din’s chest as Gideon walked towards them.

“Did you?”

“What’s your point?” Din bit out.

A slow smile crept across Gideon’s lips, but he said nothing — at least not to Din.

“Drop it.”

“Mando,” Tilly hissed, ignoring the officer. “I didn’t…I didn’t know you had a kid. I swear it.”

“The day grows late and quite frankly, you are already on the fringes of my mercy,” Gideon warned. “Now, drop it.”

Tilly grimaced, but still waved a blood-stained hand in the air.

Something like a shiver rolled through the room, sending the candlesticks rattling off the table. A drop of water splattered on Din’s helmet, then another. Then another. He glanced up and swore, instantly shoving the kid into the knapsack. _Shit._

“Ah, so you’re familiar with glamour,” Gideon recognized. “A pity.”

Din kicked up the table just as the officer fired on him. The wood swallowed up the flares, but it was already starting to liquify. _He didn’t have much time._

“I must confess I’m astonished by your lack of observation,” Gideon continued as the portraits sagged off the wall behind him.

“A Jedi Temple so easily reinstated after ruin—”

Din eyed the windows, then the door. Both were now melting into a brown ooze. _Dammit._ False exits.

“—an unsealed entrance with only one watchman to guard its entirety?”

Pelting rain splattered on Din’s helmet as he glanced up at the ceiling again. The panelling was eating away at itself, exposing a pitch-black domed sky.

“And you place your confidence in a creature who can make objects appear out of thin air. Surely, you supposed that he could do much more?”

One of the walls lurched, groaning like someone was yanking a door off its hinges. The child screeched as the wall folded in and collapsed on itself.

“One would think for someone raised in the cradle of the Death Watch—”

Tilly choked to the right of him. Din told himself it was from the blaster wound.

“—you’d be more enchanting. And frankly, less dimwitted.” The rainfall darkened the officer’s figure, but it was the wind that sent his voice hurling. His laughter carried in its gust like phantom echos.

“Now, I think it’s about time you and I were more formally introduced,” Gideon said diplomatically. “After all, you are, for the time being, temporarily detained.”

Of course Din knew, even while his eyes swept the room, that he couldn’t leave. The glamour hadn’t fully washed away.

With a scowl, Din finally stood and faced the officer.

“You knew I’d come here.”

“Correct.”

“You had the map falsified.”

“Falsified, no.” Gideon smirked. “Meaningfully outdated, yes.”

“And the trader…You knew I’d kill him.”

“No,” Gideon replied with a glint in his eye. “That was a happenstance of benevolence. True, Plenx was insatiably greedy and I surmised that he’d attempt to lay claim to the bounty himself, but I had no idea you’d leave such a bloodbath in your wake. A clerical error on my part. One can rarely be reared by a militant group and remain, as it were, untouched by their violence.”

Din set his jaw. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

“And the asset is only a dumb, driveling baby.” Mirth danced in Gideon’s eyes. “Come now. Shall we continue playing this game?”

Din said nothing.

Gideon only looked the more amused. “Seeming as you are, so partial to tales, how about I interest you with another? This comrade of yours didn’t hesitate to divulge your location for a few, measly gems.”

“Mando—”

“I don’t care.”

The wind picked up again, sending noxious fumes into the room. _Deuterium, and a lot of it,_ Din surmised. Only heavily urbanized areas could produce an odor so foul. Coruscant re-processed their fuel waste though. The only place they’d dump this much deuterium was—

_Stars above, they were in the Underworld._

The last remnants of the room receded just as Din whipped out his rifle — one gun trained behind him, the other fixed on Gideon. Both weapons wavered ever-so-slightly at the sea of stormtroopers, standing single-file, before him.

“Level 13 — for your inquiry,” Gideon shouted over the rain as a carrier ship lowered behind him, sending his cape spiraling. The hanger opened and another fleet of troops, guns-trained, descended onto the landscape.

The knapsack drew close against Din’s abdomen. “Boo buh…”

 _Five, ten, thirty, forty-five…_ Din didn’t need to count the rest of the fleets to know there were too many of them. They wouldn’t make it out alive, not unless they flew out of here.

“I imagine you intend to escape with the help of your jetpack. An effective getaway,” Gideon remarked easily, his silhouette only just-visible under the canopy of low-tech, artificial green illuminators. “I must implore you not to leave so soon.”

“Sir.” An Imp appeared beside the officer.

“Mando,” Tilly hissed lowly as Gideon conversed with the Imp. He looked like a wet-dog. “You have…to get out of here—”

The ship’s hanger whooshed open, cutting him off and sweeping the suffocating stench of refuse back into the air. Din didn’t bother to look, even as he heard the clomp of boots, a scuffle, and something —or various somethings— toppling to the ground beside him. A diversion, no doubt.

“Of course, you’re free to go,” Gideon said. “Nevertheless, I’m certain these ladies—”

 _Ladies?_ Din started.

“—would hate to see you leave without saying goodbye.”

His eyes caught a pair of broken glasses first, then blood-matted curls, and frightened eyes and Din’s stomach twisted so painfully he felt like he was going to be sick.

“No.” It was an involuntary word.

“So, you _do_ know these women…” Gideon concluded. “Delightful.”

Din’s heart raced in his chest as he met Aea’s red-rimmed eyes. _She’s been crying_ , he noticed unhelpfully, _stupidly_. That was secondary information. He needed objective facts.

Din’s eyes swept past their faces to their body language, features, and clothes. Blood trailed down the side of Aea’s face ( _new blood,_ he noted). It hadn’t yet dried. So, she’d been struck, but only minutes before. The bottom of Elgie’s skirt lay in tatters ( _she’s been dragged most places_ , he concluded), and Din could make out a fading bruise on Maisy’s cheek that could only have been inflicted by the butt of a weapon ( _so they’d been taken days ago,_ he recognized grimly). They were shivering, clothes darkening under the rain, but otherwise he saw no signs of head trauma, injury, or irreparable damage. They were shaken, but not detrimentally harmed.

He couldn’t stop a wave of relief from crashing over him.

“Imagine my surprise when one of my subsidiaries picked up a carbon trail of yours on Dantooine of all places. I must admit, at first, I dismissed such findings, especially when I discovered the source of the trail. After all—” Gideon stood in front of the women. “What need would a Mandalorian have for three, senescent women?”

An Imp prodded Aea with their gun, but it was Elgie who toppled over. Din didn’t have to look long to figure out why. Her cane was missing.

Elgie’s glasses fell off her face and she scrambled on the ground blindly, hands-tied together, searching for them. A soldier yanked her up from the ground.

Aea pitched forward. “Please, she just…she just needs to—” and was promptly backhanded.

Din didn’t register the shot that fired from his blaster. He heard only Aea’s scream as the Imp’s body crumpled to the ground.

Gideon barely paid the fallen body a glance. “I cannot stop you from leaving, but know that these women will suffer extensively at your absence,” he said with a tone so nonchalant Din almost shot him for it.

“What do you want with the child?” Din redirected purposely.

Gideon took the bait. “I’m astonished at your sudden turn towards altruism. After all, you were paid to retrieve the asset on my behalf.”

“You failed to mention it was a child.”

“An insignificant detail and, might I add, one you discovered upon retrieval. Yet, the newfound knowledge did not stay your hand from collecting the yieldings.” He paused, eyes uncharacteristically softening with something like realization. “Why, that is what your armor is made of, is it not?”

Din’s jaw was tight enough to hurt.

“I assume it must be a worthwhile lie you tell yourself: that you are a righteous savior, shielding an innocent child from the likes of the Empire—”

“The Empire is dead.”

“—I can assure you, the story is far more complicated.” Gideon stalked towards him. “You are no savior, and I am no villain. We are far more alike than you care to acknowledge. Our reasonings may differ, but we both desire the asset and we are both willing to do whatever it takes to secure that wish.”

“I wouldn’t kill my own troops for a damn bounty,” Din threw back.

“Shall I consult the dead corpses of your own people, then?”

Din rammed his rifle in the officer’s face without taking a breath. Gideon stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose. Immediately, quick footsteps — _two sets,_ he counted— sounded behind him. Din whipped his rifle around, shooting one Imp and slashing the other. He whipped around, only to find Maisy with a gun to her head.

“By all means, continue.” Gideon flexed his hand around the blaster. “We have all day. She, however, may not.”

“What do you want?” Din glowered at the officer.

Fury, barely hidden, stoked under the surface of Gideon’s professed calm. A practiced habit that only the diplomatic could perfect, Din knew.

“My proposition is simple,” Gideon said. “You may leave with the asset and thus, seal these women’s fate. Or, preserve their lives by turning yourself in to me and surrendering the asset.”

Maisy’s eyes instantly found his, fiery and determined. _The baby_ , she mouthed. _Take the baby._

Din only wished it was that simple. It hadn’t escaped his notice that they were in the slum district of H18. The district was more than a wasteland; it was inhabitable and nearly inescapable without a ship to get them past the ventilation shaft. The officer intended to trap him.

This wasn’t a proposition; it was a death sentence. Gideon was only letting him choose his death of choice. Whether Din chose to stay or flee, it wouldn’t matter. The officer would still take the child and kill the women regardless. Chances of survival, as Din configured them, were slim. Fleeing, though, proffered a near-dismal chance.

In a single breath, he said, “What are your terms?”

“No—” Elgie lurched forward, only to be promptly snatched back by an Imp.

“Relinquish your weapons, turn over the asset, and cede to my company,” Gideon replied.

“Why not just kill me?”

Amusement flickered on the moff’s face. “A tempting offer yet still dissatisfactory. Death is a guest too often welcome among your people.”

 _So, he had other plans in mind._ Silently, Din glanced at the women, simultaneously feeling the knapsack crowd against him. He had to buy them more time, and he couldn’t do that by fleeing. _The child…_ Din only hoped he’d forgive him.

Slowly, Din dropped his weapons and held up his hands, just as a troop of Imps sieged him. Insistent hands snatched his arms, shoulders, wrists, pulling them back. At the same time, the knapsack was wrenched from around his shoulder.

“Buir!” The kid wailed as an Imp yanked him out of the pack, dangling him by the fringe of his brown robe.

Din only caught a glimpse of him —desperately clawing, biting, scratching at the Imp’s hands— before he was wrestled to the ground, mud splashing against his viewfinder.

White boots appeared in Din’s line of sight. “Sir, what should we do with them?”

Din could feel the moff’s eyes on him. “Find out how much they know. Then dispose of them.”

A shriek — _Aea,_ Din realized— shrilled in Din’s audio receiver as stormtroopers rushed past and around him. He grit his teeth as he heard bodies being hoisted up from the floor, a curse from Tilly, and feet slugging through mud.

“And the child?” The Imp questioned.

“To the basal chambers.”

Din tugged against the restraints as hands wrestled him onto his feet. Under the artificial light, Din caught sight of the kid, yards away from him now, drenched from the rain. Din thought they looked like tears.

“Death would be too much of a kindness for one such as yourself,” Gideon said conversationally, _pleasantly_ , and Din thought about ripping the officer’s tongue from his mouth. “I have more advantageous plans for you.”

He stepped close — close enough for only Din to hear him. “By the time I am through with you, you’ll wish I’d have killed you back on Nevarro.”

The smile Gideon gave him was near violent.

~*~

Shackles snapped around Din’s wrists, tight enough to bite into his skin. They rattled on the floor as he was hoisted up onto his knees, arms extended out. Footsteps echoed around him and Din jolted, feeling an Imp yank the chains in place.

Din tugged on the left restraint. It came back taunt. _Dammit._

If he had one of his vambraces, he could have seared through the shackles. As things were, they’d stripped him of his armor and any weapons while on the ship. Everything from his shoulder pauldrons, to his breastplate, to the blade in his boot had been removed. Only his helmet had gone untouched ( _Leave it,_ Gideon had instructed on the ship, even as gloved hands slid under the ledge. _He’ll remove it on his own soon enough_ ). Din wasn’t particularly interested in finding out why any time soon.

Exhaling, Din surveyed the room, noting the single security-clearance entrance, mass loaded vinylim walls, the six Imps stationed around the space, and the VCT flooring. It was easy to catalog the information from there: the room was access-oriented, sound proof, and easily sanitizable. The rings in the ceiling and floors would make any restraint positions easy. A room capable of many uses, but most likely as a torture chamber.

It was information that should have incentivized him to prepare for the onslaught, but Din’s thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere grim and self-loathing.

 _This was bad._ He was the one who’d gotten himself into this mess. If Cara were here, she’d say differently. _You have to do what you have to do_ , she responded every time to one of his somber thoughts. She was a survivalist to a fault and though Din understood that, he could never be like her. It wasn’t the Way. Survival was important, but _how_ one survived mattered a hell-of-a-lot more. Din had trusted an ex-comrade who’d betrayed him at the first opportunity. He’d also given up the kid and exposed the old women to danger — none of which would have happened if he’d just checked the damn map.

He didn’t know where either were now. They’d separated them the minute the Imps shoved them onto the ship. Tilly, however, had been thrown in the same standing unit as him, still bleeding and muddy. Din figured they’d wanted to see him kill the creature. If they hadn’t landed and boarded an Imperial transporter when they did, Din would have.

The door whooshed up, but Din kept his head down, already recognizing those slow, decisive footsteps, but it was the sound of wheels squealing into the room that Din didn’t recognize.

Gideon’s boots stopped in front of him. “We will engage in a pursuit of wills.”

It was a statement that almost sent Din’s eyes rolling (at this point, he’d prefer that the officer just get on with it…whatever _it_ was). Until he swung his head up and caught sight of the small glass box…and the person inside it.

“Titanium glass, but introductions are quite unnecessary. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.” The officer circled the box, but Din’s eyes were on the child, beating against the panelling. “Quite impenetrable.”

Din swallowed against his will. Round, confused, _pleading_ eyes blinked at him through the glass. The kid’s mouth was moving, but the encasement drowned out his voice.

“You wanted me, you’ve got me. Leave the kid out of it,” Dit grit out.

“On the contrary, the asset is the reason for our current situation.” Gideon looked him over as if considering a new thought and suddenly said, “Your helmet runs a ventilation system, does it not?”

Din merely scowled.

“As I understand it, it depends on air pressure to regulate and begin aeration. An astute invention as various planets and space systems do present different pressures—”

“He doesn’t need to be here,” Din re-centered the conversation. He didn’t understand the officer. These toying games. Strategic, Din knew, but to what purpose?

Gideon leveled him with a look. “This is how we will proceed. In a few minutes, my company will drop oxygen levels in the room to near 0%, while maintaining its air pressure. Your helmet will attempt to adjust to the change, but will fail nonetheless. You, in turn, will suffocate. An easily fixable problem if you remove your helmet. Then, I will call off my company.”

Din frowned. “Then, I guess I’ll just die.”

Gideon’s eyes flickered with a knowing look. “One of the women in your party was quite eager to inform me that you faced trouble on Dantooine. A Chistori, I believe? You were close to your demise by suffocation as well. According to their tale, the asset attempted to save you.”

Suddenly, Din’s blood went cold.

“The glass encasement carries its own ventilation system, as does my company’s suits,” Gideon said nonchalantly. “Undoubtedly, the asset will intuit the latter.”

“He won’t—”

“In watching you die, he will attempt to save you. To do so, he must burst their ventilation systems to offer you air. They will meet their unceremonious end. In killing them, he will save you.”

Din wrenched against his chains. “He’s a kid, dammit!”

“If that outcome displeases you, you may always remove your helmet.”

Din’s breath came out quick as he glowered at the officer. The rage and terror that flooded Din then was enough to drown him. Din glanced back at the kid, still clawing at the box. Small hand prints smudged the glass.

It didn’t make any sense. Gideon had the kid, he had Din, he had everything at this point. And yet, it seemed like he wanted more.

“Why?” Din ground out.

“You inquire about my purpose. It is simple.” Gideon was in front of him in an instant. The previous humor in his eyes steeled into anger. “You betrayed the foundations of our business arrangement. I offered you and your party a compromise — the child, for your lives— to which you also broke faith.”

“You would have killed us anyway.”

“An unimportant detail,” Gideon dismissed. “You broke the deal.”

“Then kill me,” Din challenged.

At that, the officer smiled. “You trifled with me in your evasion, purposely keeping the asset from my grasp. Henceforth, I will withhold what you most want —whether that be the asset, your pitiful family, or death itself— until you beg me for your own demise.”

Din scowled. _Vindictive bastard._

“I will slowly break his trust in you.” Gideon straightened, the glass box peeked out from the side of him. Whimpers muffled against the glass. “You will not be saving him this time.”

An Imp stepped forward, handing the officer a mask to which he instantly donned. He signaled to someone behind him and disappeared out of Din’s line of sight.

Din stole a glance at the kid. He had one hand pressed against the glass, head tilted in confusion. Before Din could shake his head, reassure him, could do _anything,_ a warning message flashed on his monitor, blinking yellow. In the corner of the screen, the percentage of the room’s oxygen levels steadily decreased.

_He didn’t have much time._

Straightening, Din inhaled through his nose slowly, careful to keep his chest rigid. He tightened his lips and breathed out, exhaling in controlled whistles of air. _And repeat._ Again, he inhaled, willing the air towards his stomach. It wouldn’t stop the levels from dropping, but it could buy him more time.

 _Repeat_.

A bead of sweat trailed down his temple as a red warning light flashed on his monitor. Din didn’t even get to read it before his chest seized up. _Calm,_ he willed.

“Percentage?” Din heard distantly.

“49%, sir.”

“More.”

 _Repeat._ Din struggled to control his exhale, but even he knew his breath was coming out faster. It didn’t matter how much he willed his body to relax, his chest kept tightening.

He inhaled and abruptly lurched forward, straining for but finding little air. A gasping sound echoed in his ears and it was only after a second that he realized it was coming from him.

“...centage?”

“29%.”

Din leaned against one of the chains, panting. _Shit._ His head was beginning to hurt. If they kept this going, the CO2 would kill him.

Din tried to inhale again and instantly started to choke, struggling for air. _Stop._ He’d lose more oxygen this way. _Calm. Repeat._ He tried to exhale, but sputtered again. This time, he couldn’t stop his body from convulsing. Faintly, he heard chains rattling and a knocking sound.

He peeked one of his eyes open to see the kid banging desperately on the glass wall, wailing.

“….tage”

Dark spots danced in his eyes, clouding them. Large, wet eyes blinked at him. Din recognized them, knew them. They looked sad.

“19%”

Dammit, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t brea... He couldn’t—

“…re.”

Din’s body went limp, sagging against the chains. Then—

A shout. Metal squealing open. More gasping screams. Air surged in Din’s lungs and he gasped for air, gulping it down.

“N…No,” Din wheezed.

“Sir—”

“Let him finish.”

Choking sounds. They didn’t sound like his own.

Din’s vision danced, eyes wet and bleary, as his focus swayed back into view. Several bodies — _Imps_ , he corrected— were splayed out on the ground. _Dead_. Canisters, looking like they’d been ripped open, rolled across the floor.

Chest heaving, Din eyed the box, seeing the child passed out. _No…_

“Escort the asset to Level 5 for testing,” he heard the officer instruct. Din felt the man’s eyes on him. “I’ve seen all I need to see.”

Wheels squealed by him and, even as his body protested, Din clenched his fists. The door opened and more Imps clomped into the room.

“So, this is what it takes to get a response out of you?” He mused and it struck Din that he was shaking so violently the chains were rattling. 

“That—” Gideon inclined his head toward the bodies, the empty canisters, the child being wheeled away. “Was us getting acquainted. Now, we will become especially close.”

Stars above, the officer had been toying with him, seeing where Din’s breaking point was — and he’d found it. _Anything that had to do with the child._

“Go…” Din swallowed, throat raw and hoarse, as boots surrounded him. “Go to hell.”

Then, they wrenched his arm back and dislocated his shoulder.

_And so it began._

~*~

“You are foolish.”

The voice came to him, harsh and blunt in the way only a rebuke could and for a second, Din thought it was a product of his own consciousness. But then, his vision oscillated back into focus, antiseptic stung his nose, and Din found himself staring into two sunken-in, eye sockets.

Instantly he reached for his blaster, only to feel his shoulder spasm in protest. Waves of pain rolled through him as he slumped against what-seemed-to-be a wall behind him, tasting bile on his tongue. _Dammit._

“Move like that again and you’ll damage your shoulder irreparably.” The person ( _high-pitched, heavily accented_ , _most likely female voice,_ he concluded) ‘hmphed,’ and disappeared behind his back.

Without warning, a cloth dug into his wounds, simultaneously sending a hiss and a curse out of Din’s mouth. The water was colder than Ilum.

A hand pressed against his back. “You’re burning up. I must remove your helmet.”

“N…No.” Din’s voice felt gravely in his throat.

“You’ll die—”

Din swatted the hand away. “I don’t care.”

“ _Rakka_ ,” she swore at him. The rag splashed in water and suddenly, Din was being manhandled against another wall. “Stupid man.”

She stalked away and Din rolled his helmet back. Weakly, his eyes trailed around the room, seeing the heliolamps, stark white walls, access-entry door, and two empty cots in the room. So, he was in a cell. _And the kid?_

Reminiscent screams and the child’s wails echoed in Din’s mind. He’d killed for him. _The kid had…_

Swallowing, Din turned to cataloging his wounds instead. He was pretty sure two of his fingers were broken. His left shoulder was dislocated and his side throbbed every time he so-much-as tried to move. So, broken ribs. How broken he didn’t know, neither did he want to find out. Gideon had employed old torturing methods — ones a blaster could easily solve with the jerk of a trigger.

Hands on the notch-tie of his underarmor jerked him out of his thoughts. Din snatched her wrist, finding blue, jelly-like cuffs, translucent and hot, humming around them. _So, she’s a prisoner too._

“I must mend the rest of your wounds. Or, would you prefer to get an infection, Mandalorian?” She finally met his gaze—or _didn’t._ Stars, she didn’t have eyes.

 _A Miralukan,_ he realized, regarding her shrunken eye sockets again as she unclasped the top of his under armor. Her movements were decisive, quick, _knowing._ Like she knew exactly where things were. Din surveyed her again, but found nothing to prove that she did.

Somehow, Gideon had let the woman in here to heal him. Possibly another one of the officer’s calculated schemes, but Din highly doubted it. Miralukans, as annoying as they were, could hardly be swayed by some promise of power or glory. _So, why was she here?_ There was a message embedded in her presence somewhere, and Din couldn’t stop himself from searching for it.

“Why—” He coughed and tasted blood, metallic and thick in his mouth.

“Don’t speak. Breathe in.” She placed a hand over his side.

Din grimaced but otherwise complied — or _tried to._ Another coughing fit struck him and his abdomen spasmed so bad he almost doubled over. The furrow in the woman’s brow deepened.

Din closed his eyes and sighed. “How many?”

“Enough.”

The woman left and returned with a bone-knitter in hand. Wordlessly, she flicked on the device and pressed the plating into his side. Din bit back an involuntary groan as heat began searing under his skin.

“Why…is he letting…you heal me? Seems coun—Shit!” He jolted as a bone snapped together, then deflated against the wall. “Counterproductive.”

The woman merely felt along his side and directed the device to another fractured rib. She didn’t stop until the bone-knitter flashed blue. Only then did she file the device away. 

In a flurry of activity, she left and returned with the sound of plastic tearing away from adhesive. “Hold still.”

Din lurched forward, wincing, as she sprayed something airy and wet — _spray-bandages_ , he realized— on his back. _As if that spray would work._ It healed minor scrapes and Din didn’t need to see his own back to know his injuries were anything but minor.

She tossed the can away. “That’ll let you move around, but you need rest.”

“That’s in short supply these days.”

She responded by stabbing him in the back with a hypo. “That should accelerate the coagulation process. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“And you know that—how?”

The woman snorted and then, as if remembering herself, cleared her throat and began feeling along his fingers. It was oddly gentle for hands as rough as hers. _Compounded_ _callouses_ , Din noted. Even a hard day’s work couldn’t produce hands so worn.

“You’ve suffered two fractures. Too fine for the welder. I’ll need to set them—”

“You’re no medic.” When her eyebrows rose a fraction, he indicated, “Hands.”

She offered him a grimace, but no response.

“Soldier or hunter?”

“Neither.” She tore off a strip of tape with her teeth.

“But you’ve seen battle.”

“Possibly.”

Din’s patience hung on by a thread. “What are you doing here?”

“The moff needs me.”

“For what?”

She pressed a splint between his two fingers and began wrapping tape around them. “You need to keep from jostling this hand. Otherwise—”

“Why is he letting you heal me?” Din pressed.

Glaring, the woman held a finger to her lips and tossed her head at the ceiling behind them. A camera, perched in the corner, whirred behind them, searching for the source of the noise.

Only after the camera stilled did she answer in a voice low and stunted, “The body is vulnerable, especially while healing. Any further… _harm_ and recovery will be hindered. In extenuating circumstances—”

“The point.”

She scowled. “He’s trying to break your body past the point of healing.” The woman’s hands hovered over the medic-kit. “You must know he intends to make an example out of you. He will not stop until he breaks you.”

Din said nothing. Her words were meant to be preparatory, but all Din felt was uneasy — and not for himself. He had no idea where Gideon had taken the women. Or, if they were even still alive? _And the kid…_ He wondered where the little runt was now.

“I know of your kind. A proud people. Foolish. Reckless,” she bit out randomly. “You should never have come.”

“You…” Din swallowed, but his throat felt like someone had carved a knife right through it. “You know why I’m here.”

“The youngling.” Her lips twisted together. “Your kind was never meant to bear the weight of such a child’s need. One with such power…” She shook her head, mumbling under her breath. “A Mandalorian, of all people.”

 _Power?_ “How do you—”

“What do you know about midi-chlorians?”

Din frowned. “Those are children’s tales.”

“No,” she hissed. “They are not. They are our life-force, our birth origins. Your kind would care nothing about them for their purpose means little to you. But for others…it grants them access to an energy.It is the same energy that lives within the youngling.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“If I were to speak plainly, both you and I would be dead,” she hissed.

Din scowled but otherwise said nothing. Talking to the woman was like playing a game of Banaak. Clearly, she had more information, more cards in her deck, than Din did and it unnerved the hell out of him.

“You should have left the youngling where you found him. That would have been a mercy.” Her breath clouded against his viewfinder. Din could smell the antiseptic and embers from the welder on her hands. “You will die here, Mandalorian.”

“I doubt you’ll make it out alive either.” A spiteful move that he couldn’t stop himself from making.

“You misunderstand me.”

“Well,” Din leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “You’re not making much sense either.”

“You have not yet taught the youngling how to be without you,” she whispered insistently.” I fear what might happen should you die.”

Din didn’t open his eyes, but a sigh escaped him without meaning to. He wished she hadn’t said anything. Or, at least, hadn’t spoken a fear he’d stuffed so far down he swore he couldn’t feel it even on his worst days.

 _Miralukans_ , he fought the urge to snort. Irritating as much as they were forthright.

“What about you?” Din asked, intentionally changing the subject.

She stood and swiped the rag off the basin’s side. “What about me?”

“Why are you here?”

“I already told you. The moff needs me.”

“For what?”

The woman shoved the rag in the water hard enough for the basin to topple over. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Only when I’m not getting answers,” Din insulted.

She looked like she wanted to hurt him five different ways. Din’s own jaw was set ridged enough to break. He didn’t interact with Miralukans often and for good reason. He didn’t particularly enjoy feeling like someone was ten steps ahead of him.

After a pause, her attention slipped from him and back onto the basin.

“He needs my sight,” she murmured softly.

 _Sight?_ Din opened his mouth then, on second thought, closed it. He wasn’t particularly interested in reminding her that she didn’t have eyes.

“You got a name?”

The dunking stopped. “Why?”

“Humor me.”

For a while, all Din heard was the sound of water dripping steadily into the basin. Red-tinged water dribbled down her hands. It was his blood.

“Syko,” she murmured. “Terra Syko.”

Din started. _He’d heard that name somewhere before_.

“I won’t be able to splint your arm. It won’t be given enough time to heal.” She moved to stand behind him. “I suggest you bite down on something. This will hurt.”

Then, without warning, she snapped his shoulder back in place.

~*~

When Din was eleven, his second _buir_ died.

They scattered her ashes into the wind, while singing the song of remembrance. Their voices had swelled in the winter chill, but Din couldn’t access his own voice. Someone had elbowed him in the side, harsh and blunt. _Why aren’t you joining in with us?_ They’d hissed. _I can’t sing_ , he threw back. _Not very good at it._

(“You have a good singing voice, Din,” she’d remarked after one of their new life festivals. “It is soothing. Why don’t you sing for me more often?” )

He was supposed to remember her exploits, her loyalty, her fidelity to clan. But it was her voice that Din clung to — the way she instructed him, calmed him, read to him. He’d never hear that voice again.

He remembered his hands closing into fists then. _He wasn’t a baby anymore._ Death was a part of life. It was high time he learned that. Besides, if he’d learned anything from their nomadic lifestyle it was that no one could ever stay — in one place, in one home, in life.

That night, when his _buir_ visited his room, they added her name to the record of comrades long passed. Before leaving, his _buir_ pulled out a familiar red book.

Din turned his face to the wall. “I don’t care for children’s tales anymore.”

“Really?” His _buir_ replied, but there was a sadness in his tone. It was her book. She’d always read it to Din. “Well, I’m sure you can tolerate this one more time.”

Din closed his eyes, intending to block out the words, but it was impossible. He remembered them —knew them practically by heart— just as he remembered her.

_“Rise,” said the Moon._

_“And face the new day.”_

_“How can I?” replied the Sun._

_“When you’ve gone away._

_I am alone, traversing the sky in search of you.”_

_“I have not gone away,” said the Moon._

_“You and I — we are like Cassia stars in orbit, tracing the Quila sea,_

_“And where you are, there I will always be.”_

Din collapsed into sobs.

His _buir_ provided the remedy. “I will teach you a mantra for whenever your emotions threaten to overtake you. It will soothe you.” He laid a hand on Din’s shoulder. “Repeat after me: _the field of battle is my sanctuary…_ ”

~*~

Din jerked awake with the feeling of being chased.

His eyes darted around, catching the empty vacc tube, the dimmed heliolights, the untouched bowl of nutrient paste, and a set of familiar wings on one of the cots.

 _Tilly._ Din grit his teeth. He should kill him, but it would undoubtedly please Gideon. Din knew it was the only reason they kept tossing the creature into spaces with him. He wouldn’t die by Din’s hand now, but he would pay later.

Din deflated against the wall with a scowl on his lips, mind trailing back to his dreams. _Dream-like memories._ They were growing more and more frequent. Yet, he could never fully remember them, only bits and pieces and the sensations they left behind: heart-racing panic, fear, and the incessant itch to have a gun, any gun, in his hand.

Loss seemed to follow him even into his dreams.

A suffocating feeling, dark and insistent, clenched his heart. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the kid. He saw Maisy’s smart-ass grin, Elgie’s glasses, Aea’s round eyes, innocent and trusting, and every time, the same thoughts followed him. This was his fault. He’d led danger to the women and now, he’d also lost the kid. The Creed tasked him with protecting his clan and if Din couldn’t even do that, who was he? _What_ was he?

Something jingled outside the cell and Din’s attention snapped to the door. He thought he’d heard something: a rattle, a chime, a _giggle_ somewhere. But it was nothing, just the keys of someone walking by.

“You lost somethin’?” Tilly suddenly sat up. He held his damaged arm in hand. It’d been bandaged, poorly though, at some point. Din wondered if it was that woman’s doing.

Din only scowled at him.

Cautiously, the creature nodded at Din’s hand, but Din barely even glanced at it. He didn’t need to. He could feel it, splayed out as if in search of something.

“No,” Din bit out.

It wasn’t a lie.

“You sure?” Tilly asked.

A poor attempt to offer him some dignity. It was unnecessary. Din knew, even while far away from the creature, that Tilly could smell the longing on him.

“It was nothing.”

Din turned away, but the truth refused to withdraw from him — that, always and especially now, Din was searching. And yet, every time he woke up, the big eyes he was looking for weren’t the ones staring back at him.

Din shut his eyes as his good hand closed into a fist. He inhaled slowly. _The field of battle is my sanctuary,_ he mouthed the recitation at the exhale. _The rite of death—_ He skipped a line. _The field of battle—_

Suddenly, the door shot up. Din didn’t even bother to look. He waited —to hear boots clomping in, feel multiple hands snagging his arms, see familiar white uniforms— but all he heard was a faint pitter-patter.

“Boo…Boo!”

Din jerked, eyes flinging open to see the child stumble inside. _How did he—?_

The kid stuttered to a halt, his gaze darting around the room until it finally landed on Din. Without hesitating, the kid launched himself at him.

“Boo…” The child wailed into his chest, nails digging into Din’s skin.

“Shh…Shh,” Din soothed, heart and mind racing as his hands hovered over the kid in disbelief. “I’m here. Hush.”

Tilly stirred behind him and Din’s eyes darted back at the creature, then at the camera. A spike of fear ran down his spine as the lens zoomed in on the source of the disturbance. _Dammit._

Suddenly, Tilly let out an exaggerated yawn, slipped from the bed, and started to pace the room. He bumped into one of the cot’s poles, sending the metal screeching and causing Din’s audio receiver to shrill.

_The hell._

“What—”

Tilly silenced him with a look. Almost imperceptibly, he darted his eyes at the camera. Din watched as the camera len’s adjusted, whirred, and started following the creature’s movements. Before Din could even ask, insistent hands started clawing at his clothes.

“Buh!”

Tilly locked eyes with him and mouthed, _Go._

Shooting the creature a glare, Din nevertheless crowded the kid into a corner. The child yelped as his back hit the wall, immediately starting to struggle.

“Hey, _hey,_ ” Din hushed.

He held a finger to his mouth and pointed at the camera behind them. The child’s eyes flickered to the moving camera, then back at Din, then at the camera. Immediately, his cries died down to a low, but still pitiful whimper.

“What’re you doing here? How did you get here?” Din whispered, stroking the child’s cheek with his good hand.

The kid drew back and started making insistent gestures on his face.

“I don’t—” Din searched the child’s face. “Slow down. What’s wrong?”

Tilly squatted down beside him, carefully cradling his arm. At this angle, it would look like they were just crouched together in conversation. Suspicious, but nothing to warrant a ‘visit’.

“Wha’s happenin’, bug?” Tilly whispered.

Again, the kid gestured between his mouth and his temple, growing more and more desperate by the minute. Tilly visibly jolted beside him.

“What is he saying?” Din glared at the creature, seething. _“_ What did you do?”

But Tilly was too busy watching the kid, stance going still enough to be frozen.

“Tilly—”

“E’s makin’ symbols.”

“ _Of what_?”

A solemnness passed over the creature’s eyes. “Home,” Tilly said softly. “The box—your ship. He wants to go home.”

Wordlessly, Din glanced back at the kid as something heavy and raw began to build in his chest. He swallowed several times, trying to get rid of it, but the feeling was already settling inside him — along with something much more disturbing. Instinctively, Din looked the kid over.

“What’s wrong with him? Did they…” Din tried to keep his voice even and quiet. “Did they hurt him?”

“No. It’s not that. There’s…elevated heart rate, blood, panic,” Tilly listed cryptically. He inhaled again. “He’s…Frightened. Confused. Angry, even.”

 _Angry_? Din could count on one hand how many times he’d actually seen the kid get angry.

“Imps’ll come strollin’ around here for rounds soon.” Tilly eyed the door, straightening. “I’ll keep watch.”

“What does it matter if they come?” Din didn’t even try to hide the bitterness in his tone. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Tilly’s back tensed, then quietly he said, “ I can buy you some time, but I doubt I’ll be able to hold them off should they come.”

Din moved to stop him when there was a tug on his sleeve. The kid pointed at the door.

“We can’t. Listen, I need you…I need you to go before they find you here.”

Din tried to nudge him away, but the kid ignored him, attempting to crawl up his torso instead. A foot dug into Din’s side and a strangled-like sound escaped him. Instantly, the kid slipped off him, stumbling away.

“It’s okay.” Din grit his teeth against the pain. “I’m fine.”

Sadly, the child touched between his jaw and his temple again. Din glanced at the door again, feeling anxiety stir in his gut. It wouldn’t be long before Gideon figured out the child had escaped. _If the officer found him in here…_

“You need to go.” He pushed the kid towards the door again, sending the child wobbling back.

Frustrated tears filled the child’s eyes and Din swallowed, forcing himself to look away. He could feel Tilly listening, even though the creature’s back was turned. A hot, protective feeling flooded Din’s chest and suddenly, he wanted to be back within the confines of the ship, away from searching eyes and violent hands — somewhere he didn’t have to hide the kid or quiet his cries.

There was a tug on Din’s bootlaces. “Buh!”

“No.” Din batted the child’s hands away. “Don’t do that.”

The kid turned to pulling on the cuffs of his pants instead.

“Stop.”

The kid didn’t.

“It’s not that I don’t want—”

The child repeated the symbol angrily on his face.

“You can’t stay. Do you understand? They’ll hurt you.”

Tears spilled down the kid’s cheeks and Din felt something tear open inside of him.

“Baby, listen to me _—_ ”

“ _Buir.”_

“Ni kar'tayli—” Din’s voice cracked and he hurried to clear his throat, but even then the words still came out choked. Like he was being strangled. “Ni kar'tayli gar copaani at slana yaim.” _I know you want to go home._

A whine sounding painful enough to hurt slipped from the kid, but the insistent pull on Din’s boot had stopped.

“Ni copaani at slana yaim sa pirusti,” Din murmured. _I want to go home too._

Hesitantly, the child repeated the symbol on his face and Din couldn’t stop himself from smoothing a finger down the kid’s cheek, his own gesture sad and wistful.

“Yes.” Din nodded. “ _Yaim_ is home. Our home.”

A hiccup burst from the child’s lips and, for a second, Din feared the kid might start wailing again. But then, the kid crawled over to him and climbed into his lap. 

A breath Din hadn’t realized he’d been holding whooshed out of him.

“I’m sorry.” Instinctively, Din moved to touch the kid, to comfort him somehow, but then his shoulder spasmed and he remembered. _Leaving wasn’t the only thing he couldn’t do._ “You shouldn’t have to—None of this is your fault, okay?”

The kid scrubbed his eyes, clearly trying to stop himself from crying. Or maybe, he was trying to stop Din from noticing he was crying and that made everything worse.

“Boo,” the child whined, leaning back.

There was a longing in his eyes, something sad and frightened, and it came to Din slowly where he’d seen that look once before.

When Din was a child, the Tribe sent him into a biodome field alone. It was the first of many Trial-Ops meant to instill the first tenet of the Code into them: _strength._ Which meant, in order for he and his peers to develop resiliency in combat and life, they needed to learn how to survive on their own. Excitement had buzzed amongst his group as they walked to the field. Would they be given weapons? What would they find there? What would find _them_?

Din’s peers had raucously listed off objects of fear that, at the time, seemed both ridiculous and unlikely: sand demons, gelagrubs, loth-wolves, lifelike darkness. Childish fears. Even then, Din had felt out of place. He wasn’t afraid of insects, or predatory creatures, or even the loss of light. It wasn’t anything tangible. No, when Din stood in that field, he found that his eyes trailed after the form of his instructors, disappearing through the ferns. Even when they left, he found that his gaze lingered on where they used to be, as if waiting for them to re-materialize. Waiting for them to come back.

(Because a part of Din was always waiting after he’d been rescued. And even though Din was grateful for the Mandalorians that took him in and the home he’d been welcomed into, he still couldn’t help waiting as a child. Because what if his parents hadn’t died and he moved on too soon? What if _he_ abandoned _them_?)

It took age and conditioning, more than any kind of drastic transformation, to wring those feelings from him. To make him forget. But then, he’d met the kid — who proved to meddle in more things than just the spare parts on his ship.

The kid forced him to recall aspects of his own childhood that he’d forgotten.

Like how he’d curled up under the canopy of the featherfern trees, shutting his eyes against the whisper of _alone, you’re alone, always alone_ that assaulted his mind as a boy. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be told to stay in a place that left him feeling small, feeling more alone than ever. Somewhere along the way, he’d abandoned that part of himself —that scrawny boy, racing through the fern trees with mud on his feet, _searching_. Those memories, long since buried away, were both painful and curious to remember. 

He preferred to recall more favorable times with his clan — not _those_ memories. And yet, ever since the kid had shown up, Din couldn’t stop remembering. Somehow, he’d stumbled upon a child with that same look of longing in his eyes.

Another orphan searching.

Din was a former foundling raising a foundling, and that was the cruelest, most ironic joke if there ever was one.

Eying Tilly, Din murmured, “I know I’m not the best company, and I know you didn’t ask for this life. You’re a kid. It’s okay to be _that_ , with me, if you want to.”

Din cleared his throat, feeling a heat pass over his skin. There was something affectionate in that statement, something he hadn’t meant to communicate.

Affection in the clan had always been more action-oriented and subtle — an elbow in the ribs, a bowl of spicy Tiingilar kept warm after a long sparring session, a warm-toned quip upon meeting that usually sounded like: ‘So, you aren’t dead, yet?’ The meaning was clear, even when the action seemed abrasive or convoluted. Affection was a sentiment meant to be mediated through work, not words.

Still, Din was aware that such gestures wouldn’t exactly work on the kid.

The kid wanted tenderness — partly because his wounds were so visible and partly because he wasn’t skilled enough yet to know how to hide them. He demanded things like hugs and near-suffocating kisses (the latter, Din only narrowly avoided). He refused to eat his breakfast without holding on to some part of Din and most days, he could be found waiting at Din’s feet, arms out, and eyes begging. He was an open book and in many indirect and unspoken ways he demanded for Din to be the same.

But Din didn’t know how to do that — how to be unguarded after a lifetime of living _on guard_. How did one even begin to be expressive in care? To say ‘I love you?’

If asked, Din would say he’d been too busy keeping the kid safe to speak such sentimentalities, but even Din knew that was a half-truth. He just didn’t trust himself to say it. But now, Din was at the end of his rope. It was possible that he would die here, protecting a member of his clan—no _,_ protecting his _son_. Such a death was far from shameful. Neither was there any shame in saying what he’d always longed to say (he realized that fact now), what he’d _kept_ himself from saying.

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”

Din’s voice felt swollen and for once, he was glad the kid didn’t know what the hell he was saying. Otherwise, the child would have known the truth.

That in Basic, the words were simple: I love you. 

But in Mando’a, the words meant ‘to hold by the heart forever’.

It struck Din that maybe he’d been saying it all along — when he went back for the kid on Nevarro, when he planned to leave him on Sargon, when he was willing to die for him. Din had always thought love was a decision of the will but now, he wondered if his heart had beat him to it? The kid had latched on to him and, it seemed, Din’s heart had returned the favor. It was for that reason that Din tucked the kid under his chin and just let the little womp rat hold on to him.

Claws dug into his arm and the child started to hiccup. “Buir…”

Something heavy and sad swelled in Din’s chest. His eyes burned and, at first, Din almost blinked it all away. But then a sound, unconscious, deep and throaty, rumbled in his throat. It was melodic, though disjointed. It didn’t sound bad.

A tiny hand touched his throat, and an eye peeked up at him. Questioning.

“ _Laaran_ ,” Din murmured, naming something that felt familiar and yet, just as foreign. He gathered the child close, only translating when the kid drifted off. “It means ‘to sing’”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially in the climax of the story. Two chapters left to go and then, this story will be completed. You can expect the next chapter within the month of December.
> 
> I know I say this often, but I am deeply grateful to all of you who faithfully read/support this fic. Thank you to everyone who leave comments, kudos, or just bookmarks. I'm sending you gratitude and love from the cockpit of Din's ship. Now, onto chapter questions + Psych-Corner with Din:
> 
> Chapter Questions:
> 
> 1.) Where do you see Din expressing emotion in this chapter? What scene/part moved you in this chapter?  
> 2.) How do you see Din and the Child establishing secure attachment, even in the midst of danger and peril?  
> 3.) Reflect on the first few chapters of this story (e.g. chaps 1-3). How has Din and the Child's relationship deepened or changed since then?  
> 4.) Now, you officially know where the title of this story came from. How do both Din and the Child hold each other in/by the heart? (As a brief note: I am using the prepositions in/by interchangeably because, in many languages, they can be fluid or switchable).  
> 5.) This story started almost one year ago and will wrap up before 2021. What initially drew you to this story? Why are you still reading it now?
> 
> Psych-Corner with Din (as usual, grab something hot to drink and cozy up with a blanket):
> 
> In this climactic chapter, I wanted to delve further into the concept of attachment — more specifically, how Din’s attachment style interacts and complicates the Child’s attachment style. I’ve heard it said that the past never really remains in the past. Rather, our past (I.e. History) is always with us, still shaping us and forming us. In Din’s case, his attachment style seems to be an avoidant style. Those with an avoidant attachment style tend to appear outwardly independent. They rely heavily on self-soothing techniques to manage their emotional and relational needs, so they don’t need to rely on others. They also have a tendency to isolate, rather than seek out support from others. Since our attachment styles are formed very early on, Din’s way of relating stems from his upbringing. Hence why, in this chapter, I included subtle moments/memories of his past (e.g. the number of people who’ve died in his life, the mantra as a self-soother, his tendency to push away raw emotions rather than press into them). 
> 
> The Child, on the other hand, seems to have an insecure/ambivalent attachment style, which poses a huge challenge considering Din’s attachment style. Due to, what I assume to be, the inconsistencies of his “guardians” (e.g. one hunter taking him after another), the Child has not experienced prolonged relational security. He naturally then clings to Din and refuses to be separated from him. This, again, poses a challenge because Din is used to being on his own and not expressing himself emotionally (he actually can’t do that due to his field of work), while the Child actually needs open emotional + relational support. 
> 
> In this chapter then —and honestly, in this story as a whole— I wanted to show how one’s past history shapes their present day relations (aka. Attachment theory 101). More, I want to intensify the internal and external tension in the story: the Child refuses to be separated from Din. Meanwhile, Gideon is attempting to do exactly that — kill Din and take the Child. To keep the kid safe, they have to keep moving, which creates an insecurity of place (e.g. no real sense of home, which also explains why the child considers the Razorcrest to be their home). In this chapter in particular, to keep the kid and the ladies’ safe, Din has to be separated from them. Again, this adds to the tension within the chapter. The events within the eighth chapter also suggest a reliving of generational history. Din witnessed the slaughter of his caregivers (the source of his attachment) and now, the Child is in the same predicament. Like his parents, Din is willing to sacrifice himself to save the Child’s life. Yet, like Din’s childhood self, the Child just longs to be reunited with his caregiver (aka. Din).


	9. The Resolution (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is officially fried.
> 
> I decided to break this installment into another Part One and Part Two. This chapter was already getting long (almost 9,000 words) and I couldn't include the second part without overwhelming this chapter. So, please consider this installment as part of a continuation. As a note: I decided to include an epilogue into this story, so the chapters have been adjusted from 9/10 to 9/11. 
> 
> All I will say about this chapter is pay attention to the details. Many scenes serve an important purpose in the next installment. I hope you enjoy. As usual, share any thoughts, reactions, speculations, or observations below.

They’d barely dumped him on the floor before Din tipped up the chin of his helmet and vomited.

“Skroggin’ hell, Mando,” Tilly cursed, vaulting off the cot.

The creature tried to get him to move, but Din knelt rigid, eyes searching his sick. Bile stared back at him, yellow, acidic, and sour on his tongue _._ No signs of old food, blood, anything noxious or rancid. Nothing to get rid of in his system.

 _Stars above._ Of course there wasn’t. It was in his bloodstream.

Tilly crouched at his side. “What—”

“Leave… Leave me.”

Fingers dug under his collar, ignoring him, feeling his pulse. “What the hell did ‘e give you?”

Din opened his mouth, but then his stomach flipped and he retched again. Nothing came out this time. Only violent gags echoed around the room. It felt like he was being boiled from the inside out.

“Be still.” A hand on his shoulder, then a sniff. “ _Drol’s beard_ , how the hell—! I need t’get you to the bed.”

Din swatted his hand away. “Don’t… need you.”

“You’ve got Mâgora in you, dumbass!” Tilly hissed.

 _Enough to make him anxious,_ Din noticed, judging by the sudden slurring of the creature’s words.

“The woman—”

“She won’t be able t’help. Not with this.” An arm slithered around Din’s waist.

Weakly, Din edged out of reach. “Con…conjure an injector.”

“An inject—? That won’t get it outta your veins—”

“Can you do it or not?” Din grit out between clenched teeth.

“Mando, I’m not a damn magician. I can’t jus’—”

“Leave then.”

Tilly visibly stiffened. “Y’see this?” He turned, swiping wisps of hair away to unveil a circular chip, plastered to the base of his neck. “If I so much as _try_ to cast a spark, this thing’ll fry my brain.”

Frankly, Din didn’t care. Colors danced in his eyes, flashy and vivid. His head rolled and before he could protest, an arm was slipping along his back again, heaving him up.

“The hell did you put on weight for?” Tilly grumbled, half-stumbling-half-dragging Din to the bed before dropping him on it.

There was the sound of cloth ripping away and suddenly, Din felt his wrists being bound together. He bolted up, snatching a fistful of Tilly’s tunic, only to fall back on the cot with his arm spasming. Nausea crashed over him.

“Shit.”

The binding returned. “S’to keep you from rippin’ your own tongue out, idiot. Now,” Tilly said, leaning over him. White strands dangled in Din’s face. “How many’a me’s do you see? What can you make out?”

Din groaned, feeling like someone had mangled his senses into a discombobulated ball of string. He saw a ring of trinkets, a gem, a leather band; heard a chime, a clink, a jangle. _Necklace,_ some distant part of him recognized. It was Tilly’s necklaces, but Din registered it all in sounds and colors. Concerned black eyes, many of them, blinked down at him.

“Four…five…”

A curse, then fingers popping open the clasps on his collar. Cool air iced the sweat on Din’s throat. It did nothing to quell the heat rising under his helmet. Every time he spoke, the air became thicker, almost unbearable.

“…your mental barriers. Hey!” Fingers snapped in front of his face. “Y’mental barriers… how strong’re they?”

Din blinked away the sweat-soaked bangs in his eyes. “They’re…intact.”

“I need you to drop ‘em.”

 _Drop—_? “No.”

“Listen, Mâg’s for high-level criminals. S’meant to sift through your mind for intel, things you’re ‘iding. Only skilled wignuts with-a-shell to-crack keep barriers up. If you don’t ‘ave any, the drug won’t turn you mental.”

“I said...no.”

It smelled like someone had torched a field of flowers. “You don’t have a choice, you old bastard. Your brain’ll be Hutt shit if you don’t.”

“It’ll have my thoughts.”

“Or your sanity. Take your pick.”

Din would have preferred death over either. He was already starting to feel a change in his body: muscles relaxing, the urge to vomit churning in his gut, tongue loosening as if primed to blurt out something ridiculous. The drug was soothing his physical defenses into an unnatural state of compliance. It’d make probing his mind all the more easy, and it was exactly what Gideon wanted.

Din wanted to shoot himself in the foot for his own ignorance. He’d been slow to follow. _Too slow._ The cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, broken fingers, though they seemed at first random, were strategic (cracked ribs made it hard to twist, bend, _breathe_ ; a dislocated shoulder made movement difficult at best, impossible at worst; broken fingers —on his dominant hand, index and middle— prevented him from holding any sort of weapon: blaster, knife, or otherwise). If he wanted to shoot his way out of this, the chances of succeeding were slim. He was a prisoner in his own body and Gideon, the bastard, was about to make him a slave to his own mind.

The officer had been besieging his defenses long before Din realized.

“What’re you so afraid of?”

Din jerked, feeling a range of words — _loss of control, loss of autonomy, loss of power—_ pile against his mouth.

“Other than a drug spilling my secrets…?” Din said, swallowing the words down and feeling his stomach churn in response. “Nothing.”

“The most it’ll do is make you see things. Thas’ better than anyone can ‘ope for.”

“Sorry I’m not feeling particularly hopeful.”

“Oh, drop the evasive shit, Mando. What’re you, five?”

“No, I’m—” Din bit his tongue and instantly, found himself dry heaving again.

Tilly appeared at his side as Din fell back on the bed. _Dank farrick. It was the questions._ Questions compelled him to answer.

“Why the ‘ell would ‘e give this to you?”

Sweat trailed down Din’s temple. “I—”

“An’ don’t say you don’t know,” Tilly said. “You might be many things, but stupid as ‘ell ain’t one of ‘em.”

Din grimaced, feeling the compulsory sensation again like a siren’s song, drawing the words out of him. He couldn’t deny them this time.

“Power,” he revealed between gritted teeth. “He wants…power.”

“Over what?”

Din’s lips thinned and his stomach clenched painfully. “D…Dammit.”

“S’starting, isn’ it?” Tilly sucked in a breath. “Shit, you don’t ‘ave to…Forget I asked.”

But the drug refused to let him.

“Not over what,” he answered. “From _who._ ”

“From—?” Tilly cut off and Din barely had to wait before the creature sucked in a breath. “S’not secrets ‘e’s after, is it?”

Din swallowed. “No.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

Din was grateful Tilly didn’t say the reason out loud (at least he gave Din that much). Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to bear it.

That Gideon wasn’t trying to expose anything Din was hiding as much as he was just trying to humiliate him.

He knew people like Gideon: those who built their power off the backs of powerless people. It hadn’t taken Din long to recognize the same penchant in the officer. Gideon was more than some strategic, self-seeking bastard. He fed off of others’ helplessness like a parasite. He established power by _taking_ it from another.

This wasn’t about betraying a business arrangement. No, Din knew this was far more personal. The officer had been best-ed, _made_ powerless to some degree, and now he intended to strip Din of power. He wanted to steal everything that made Din Mandalorian: his armor, his strength, his sense of control, his pride ( _I know of your kind. A proud people_ , the Miralukan woman had whispered. _You must know he intends to break you_ ).

He intended for Din to die without honor. A fate worse than death itself and somehow, Gideon knew that.

“Mando, you ‘ave to drop your barriers. Otherwise, you won’t come outta this the same.”

Din snorted emptily. He doubted he’d make it out the same either way.

“You’ve got a bit’a time. It ‘asn’t filtered through your body yet, so it’ll come in waves for now.”

“How long?” Din croaked, feeling the nausea and head-fog begin to recede. It would be back soon.

“Not long enough,” Tilly quipped, eying the camera. “It’ll burn through every bit of energy in your system, tryin’ to keep your mind active. Y’brain’ll forget basic things: the need’ta eat, breathe, take a piss. If I can touch the nerve in the back of your head, I can force the drug to let you come out from under. You’ll ‘ave your mind back, even if jus’ for a moment.”

“You’re talking…about hypnotizing me.”

“Don’ sound so excited. S’not what you think,” Tilly said lowly. “In low doses, hypnotism’s jus’ a suggestion to your brain. I wouldn’t be controlling you. Jus…acting like an alarm clock of sorts. The drug’ll keep taking you back under, but at least this way, you’ll have breaks. S’ like pressing pause on a film.”

“I thought you needed eye contact?”

“Makes things easier, sure, but s’ not the only way. The chip keeps me from doin’ contactless enchantments. Thankfully, I’ve got the magic touch,” he hummed, holding up his hand to Din’s face.

Din frowned, vision clearing to see a map of tattoos on his palm, similar to the runes on Tilly’s cheeks.

“S’my enchantment scripts. Where most’a my abilities come from,” Tilly explained, causing Din’s eyes to widen. _So, that was why Gideon shot his other hand…_ He should have known the action hadn’t been a coincidence or some show of mercy. “Now, all I need’ta do is— 

Din jerked back. “I don’t want you in my head.”

“I just told you I won’t be—” He cut off with a huff. “Mando, I can ‘elp you.”

“Why?” Din bit out, hoping Tilly could at least smell the resentment on him. “Why do you care? The drug…the kid…all of this is your fault.”

Tilly stiffened beside him. “Y’don’t think I know that?”

“No,” he said, the drug forcing the truth out. For once, Din was glad for it. “I don’t.”

“I didn’t—! Y’know what? We don’t ‘ave time for this.”

“Yet, you made the time to betray me.”

Something sizzled and popped in the air, smelling of singed hair. “You left _me_ , remember? On some godforsaken planet with no backup, no transport, no comms.”

“I told you I was done with the jobs.”

“Yeah. As some half-assed joke,” Tilly threw back. “If anythin’, you started all this.”

“So, you decided to finish it.”

“Yeah, Mando. I did,” he silenced with an edge. “Dammit, you don’t jus’ up and leave.”

“I had to go.”

“Course, you did. Cus’ you can never stay.”

 _Yes, I can,_ Din meant to say, but nothing came out. He tried to speak, but found the words missing like they’d been stolen. Din felt the blood drain from his face. It wasn’t a lie. It couldn’t be. _Of course, he knew how to…_

“You’ve always done it. Had these shitty habits of yours,” Tilly continued. “Trustin’ people you shouldn’t an’ distrustin’ the ones you should. So busy tryin’ to survive y’don’t even think about anythin’ else, do you?”

 _And you’re so busy trying to amass money and notoriety, you’ll do anything to make a name for yourself,_ but Din didn’t say that. He couldn’t when a question had been asked.

“No,” he admitted. “I…don’t.”

He could feel the creature’s eyes cutting into him. It felt like a stab in the back and it struck Din how terrible and impossible and confusing all this was. To be both the betrayer and the betrayed. The one who’d been left ( _so many times_ , the drug inserted annoyingly) and the one doing the leaving. Was there a line separating each reality? Or, were they merely two sides of the same coin?

The camera hummed noisily against the wall and Din felt a bitter laugh on his lips. They’d most likely zoomed in, awaiting a bloodbath.

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore,” Tilly mumbled with an exhale. At the inhale, he said, “Y’heart rate’s too fast. I need’ta begin. Unless, you still wanna be a prick about it?”

Din scowled, but his silence answered well enough for him.

In a split second, Tilly’s eyes appeared in front of his viewfinder and it took Din a minute to realize the creature was flying ( _hovering)_ over him. Dark eyes —pitch black with no pupil— squinted down at him. _Galaxies,_ a distant part of his brain supplied unhelpfully. Some said a Diathim’s eyes resembled virgin galaxies, darker than the planet Uro. Looking at them this close, Din thought it was a load of romanticized Bantha shit.

“You’re gonna ‘ear a voice in your head from the Mâg. You’ll wanna fight it. Whatever you do, _whatever you see…_ ” Cold fingers pressed into the base of his skull and Din jolted at the touch. “Don’t resist it.”

——

_Show me._

The words emerged in Din’s mind like they were an extension of his own thoughts. Some distant part of him knew the opposite was true —the texture felt too seductive, the tone too cloying and suggestive, to be his own— and yet, they enticed him all the same. There was something sympathetic about them as if such words wished to rid him of a burden he’d been carrying for far too long.

_You want me to know what you know._

Did he? Din couldn’t separate the smooth statements from his own will. The words felt like his words, its intention his intention, its desire his own. Like fingers rifling through folders of information that he’d relinquished. Like an intruder ( _friend_ ) he’d invited inside.

If Din’s mind were a house, then every thought was a hallway. Every memory a door he had flung open to be ransacked. His thoughts were being foraged, rummaged, combed through until a series of moments appeared in Din’s mind, alongside something like a contented hum of satisfaction.

_Let us begin._

And it dragged him into a memory.

——

 _One:_ a threadbare tunic. _Two:_ a sock missing its pair. _Three:_ a spare cape. _Four…_ Fingers brushed the bottom of a crate.

“Dammit.”

It was late and Din was tired. Eager, for once, to jump into the sonic and go to bed, but his clothes were missing. Not just the ones he’d laid out, but the spare clothes he’d folded in the crate. _Not again…_

Din rubbed his brow. “Kid…”

Only steady, synchronic beeps from the cockpit met him and if that wasn’t telling, Din didn’t know what else was.

“Kid!” Din called again, climbing up the ladder and into the main hall.

The area was washed in darkness, save for a few pin-pricks of red light from the security beacon. Din snorted if only to keep himself from frowning. The little womp rat had even dimmed the lights.

He angled down the hall, stubbing his foot on a sharp bauble and only just managing to side-step a trail of crackers. Din dragged the toys against the wall with a grimace. There was a time when he used to walk through his ship unimpeded by rolling metal balls, sharp pens, and sticky paint. A time when his boots didn’t crunch on cookies and crackers and chips and _stars-knew-what-else._

Din paused in front of the curtain leading into the misc. room, hearing muffled chatter. _The child was talking to himself again._ A steady habit nowadays and one Din wasn’t eager to curb (even if the little womp rat did talk his ear off).

He lifted the curtain and found himself standing in a sea of his own clothes.

“Dank farrick,” Din muttered, surveying the same clothes he’d folded just hours before now strewn across the floor like a free-for-all.

The child’s head popped up over a small mound. “Boo!”

“Kid, we’ve…talked…about…this,” Din grunted, stepping carefully around a pair of pants, an undervest shirt, and a blanket ( _was that the blanket off his bed?_ ) to make it to the child.

The child patted the spot next to him.

“Why don’t we clean this up and sit down somewhere…else.”

Din knelt down, gathering some pants up.

“No!” The child shoved his hands off. “No.”

“I need to—”

“No!” The child dragged a loose shirt over to him and plopped back down, burying his face in it.

“Don’t do that.” Din reached out. “You’ll smother yourself.”

The kid held it out of reach. “No.”

Din sat down with a sigh. “What are you doing with them anyway?”

 _Why do you keep doing this?,_ was what he actually wanted to ask, but the former sounded a bit kinder. A round eye peeked out from his shirt, shy and curious.

“Boo,” the child replied, holding out the shirt.

“Yeah, it’s mine.” Din grabbed for it. “I need—Hey! I need that back.”

The kid wouldn’t let him have it. Instead, he hugged the shirt to his chest, inhaling deeply, and Din’s heart almost stuttered to a stop. His lips parted with an unspoken _‘oh’._

“You like…” A careful swallow. “You like the way I smell?”

The kid hummed in response. 

“Is this…” Din trailed off as he gazed around, seeing past the chaos to notice the piles of clothes pillowed around the kid. “Did you made a nest out of my clothes?”

The child waddled past him and snagged a glove, a collar piece, a thermal. Din watched him trail around the room from here to there, reforming the small mountains of clothes while he chattered to himself. All the while, Din’s adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

“I…” His chest swelled. “Why would you do that?”

The child merely plopped down in his lap and offered him a sock.

——

Din was nudging a plate across the table.

“Eat.”

It slid in front of the kid, spilling slop onto the table, just as Din hunched back over the electrical cube with a pincer in hand. His head lamp illuminated the singed wires sparking from the cube. Wafts of burnt insulation curled against his helmet, and Din bit back the urge to dig the Geo’s body out the swamp just to pummel him again. The insect had sliced through the central electrical cube, cutting off the cockpit’s lighting and disengaging the security lock on the lift. _A lesser evil, all things considered._ It had most likely intended to sever his pilot controls from the mainframe, making a jump impossible if he tried to escape. Thankfully, it hadn’t accomplished either.

Nevertheless, Din was now sitting in darkness with an electrical cube that was intent on dying on him. He needed to get the thing working or at least manufacture a substitute by night-fall; failure to accomplish either would leave the ship vulnerable to bandits that lurked around the swamp. At this rate though, he’d be lucky just to salvage the energy chip.

The sound of a plate scraping across the table interrupted Din’s focus. He looked up to find the food dish staring back at him.

“You need to eat,” Din repeated, nudging the dish back in front of the kid. “The electrical’s shot and until I can get it working again, this is the only filling meal you’ve got. Everything else needs to be warmed up.”

The child pushed the slop around the plate and Din just barely restrained himself from saying something. The kid had been in this funk for the last few hours: refusing to talk, listen, or so-much-as do anything Din asked him to do. It wasn’t his usual stubbornness. The behavior felt angry and defiant, but Din couldn’t pin-point anything he had done wrong. He figured he just wasn’t saying or doing the right thing (whatever that was) in the kid’s eyes.

_As if that was anything new._

“I don’t want you to be hungry later,” he said, feeling his own stomach gurgle in protest. He hadn’t eaten yet. “Just…take a few bites _please_. You don’t have to eat all of it.”

He made to turn back to the cube when he heard the plate scrape across the table again.

“Kid, I’m—” _Trying._ He bit back the word, hand tightening around the pincher instead. “Eat your food.”

Din pushed the meal back.

“No.” The child scrunched up his face and pushed the plate away.

Din was close to pulling his own hair out. “You’re going to sit there and eat your dinner. Otherwise, there’ll be no cookies for you.”

“No…” The child whined.

“Finish your food then,” Din said, turning back to the wires and finding shadows there now. _Dammit. He was running out of time._

“No.”

Another shove sent the plate almost toppling over and the slop _just_ missed the cube. Din could barely hear himself breathing.

“That’s it. You’re not getting any.” He snatched the sealed cookies from the table, even as a pained cry wailed from behind him. “You don’t push things.”

Din just shoved the cookies in his pocket when something shattered against the wall. He looked up to find the kid’s cup, spiraling on the floor, in pieces.

“Did you throw that?”

He made to step forward when the kid suddenly scooted back on the bench, eyes wide and frightened. It was enough to drain all the color from Din’s face.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, holding his hands out inoffensively. “I’m not going to...You know I wouldn’t… I’d never hurt you.”

Fear still blinked back at him.

“I’m sorry. I just...” _Don’t know what the hell I’m doing._

The electrical cube sparked up at him, sitting in a pool of brown slop now and for some reason, Din felt like crying.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice.”

The child’s grip loosened on the bench, but he still kept staring at Din’s hands like he was waiting for them to do something. Din reached under the table and gathered up the broken cup pieces, hoping that was enough of an answer for the kid.

“You’re allowed to be mad at me, y’know. I’m not _that_ fragile.” Din sat down, drawing his knees up to make himself look smaller. “But throwing stuff isn’t great. We’ve only got four cups —well, _three now—_ so we should try to take care of them.”

They sat across from each other, watching each other: Din, from the shadows, and the kid, from the bench. The head lamp cast an almost penetrating glare on the child, making him wince and shrink back. Din felt the urge to flick off the light, but then they’d both be sitting in darkness. He took off his helmet instead and placed it on the table. They weren’t sitting in total darkness anymore, but neither were they haloed in light either. If anything, they were looking out at each other now from a grey area.

Din reached into his pocket and saw the kid stiffen.

“Do you want to play a game?”

He pulled out a handful of useless items from his pockets and deposited them on the floor.

“This?” Din set forward a blue color pen. “Or that?” A purple pen.

The child slipped off the bench. Then, after eying him warily, dragged the purple pen towards him.

“This?” A set of keys. “Or that?” A rag.

He took the keys.

“This?” A paperclip. “Or that?” One of Din’s own gloves.

He chose the glove.

“This?” Din pulled the metal ball from the cockpit out of his pocket. “Or that?” Half of a cookie.

The child pushed through the items and threw himself at Din.

“Boo…”

Din wrapped his arms around him. “I know.”

——

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Din was stammering as he stripped the blankets, pillows, and threadbare throws off the bed. They piled unceremoniously on the floor, wet and soiled. The artificial lamps flickered and buzzed above, shining a cruel spotlight on the mattress.

“It was an accident. You just… had an accident, that’s all.”

The child stood a little ways off, head down, picking at a loose string on one of the pillows. Every time Din tried to catch his eye, he turned away, purposely avoiding him.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” Din said, tripping over a toolbox on his way to fill a basin with water. A soldering iron clattered across the grates. “Then, we’ll put clean sheets on the bed.”

He left out the fact that the blankets on the floor were the only ones he owned.

Gathering the kid up, Din removed his soiled clothing and deposited him in the basin. He would need to wash the kid’s clothes, alongside his own. Both were soaked through. Din had tried to distract him from that fact, but the child had noticed just the same. Every time the kid so-much-as glanced at him, his ears drooped a little bit lower.

The botched trade exchange had created this mess. It didn’t matter that the slicka pad had healed the kid’s hand hours before, neither did it matter that they were light years away from Nal Hutta. The child had still woken up screaming and drenched in his own pee.

 _Plenx._ This was all the Rodian’s doing. Din shouldn’t have been so quick to kill the creature. He should have taken his time, made the leader hurt more, saved its death for last.

Din’s hand tightened on the basin ledge and the kid visibly stiffened.

“Hey, no. I’m not…I’m not mad at you. I just—” Din cut off, running a hand through his hair instead. “Do you want to wash yourself?”

The child said nothing and Din chewed on his lips. He tried to speak, but found nothing but stupid words. He began washing the kid’s back instead, needing to keep his hands busy.

A beat of silence, then he cleared his throat. “Y’know, it’s really not that bad.”

The kid blew air at him.

“Do you want to be left alone for a while?”

The child actually glared at him and a mumbled apology was on Din’s tongue in an instant. He resumed scrubbing, only to curse himself a few seconds after. He’d forgotten the soap.

“I can make you something if you’re hungry? Anything you want… Or, I can get your pens. You can draw, or play, or…” Din trailed off, letting the water from the cloth interrupt the silence in steady drops. It was a sad sound.

“I told you I’m not mad, didn’t I?” Din swallowed, letting the cloth rest on the kid’s back. “Because I’m not.”

Tense green shoulders relaxed under his hand. It felt like an olive branch of some kind (though neither of them had done anything wrong), filling Din with a liquid courage that dared him to take a step closer.

“Was it another bad dream?”

Wordlessly, a small green hand closed around Din’s finger.

——

Dawn  was breaking on Dantooine and Din was already awake.

He heard noise below: the clatter of pots and pans, chairs scraping against floorboards, chatter speaking over chatter. The ladies were up-and-moving and normally, Din would have been downstairs by now. But the first rays of sunlight were spilling in through the window, glinting off the kid’s peach fuzz, making sparkles out of baby hair and Din found himself transfixed. 

A cold nose brushed against his throat and Din rolled them over, the quilt twisting around them. The bed was cooler on this side, untouched. It was where the kid was supposed to sleep. As always, the child had nestled under Din’s arms at some point during the night. Din woke up many mornings on Dantooine like this: feet tangled in old sheets, face marked by sleep-worn pillows, and arms full of _child._ It was an unusual, though not unpleasant, experience.

Peace was a garment that Din didn’t fit well in and it was usually by choice. Sorgan, in all its greenery and laughter and warmth and _Omera_ , had been enough to send Din running. He said he didn’t belong there, but that wasn’t it — not exactly. Sorgan was a picture of contentment, peace, and tranquility, but Din was a man of war. He did things like draw his gun at a footstep behind him; catalogue things like exit routes, puncture points, and the _quickest and most effective way to diffuse a threat_ (which usually meant someone ended up dead); and carry his gun like it was an extension of himself because it was.

Sorgan would have been too tranquil for him. He knew he didn’t belong there, but somewhere along the way, _there_ came to mean anywhere that felt restful, peaceful, and comfortable. His presence felt too often like a disruption. Like the one part of the landscape that didn’t _fit._

And yet, here he was. Here they were enjoying peace in the midst of trouble. _Fitting well_.

The child’s eyes blinked open and Din caught himself smiling.

“Good morning.”

——

_7 feet, 10 steps._

The tape measure snapped back in Din’s hand as a sigh left his lips. One step more than last time. Din wasn’t sure if he should feel proud or disappointed. An additional step was progress. It just felt like they were moving at a Gampassa’s pace to get there.

“Alright,” he announced, rising. “Let’s try again.”

The child eyed him nervously from the carrier, whimpering as Din crossed the room. This was either going to piss the kid off or produce favorable results. Din willed for the latter as he counted his steps, pausing only when he ended at ten.

He faced the child then slowly took a step back.

A whine crooned from the carrier.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Din took another languid step, eliciting a groan from the floor. The distance was slight enough for a table to separate them, but the kid’s gaze was almost hawkish.

“Let’s practice our numbers,” Din said to distract and the kid’s ears perked up. “ _Sol_.”

“S…So.”

“ _T’ad_.” Din shuffled another foot back imperceptibly.

“Ad…”

A step. “ _Ehn_.”

The child watched Din’s feet. “…Uhn.”

“ _Cuir_.” Another.

Nails dug into the carrier. “Boo…”

“I’m right here.” Din calmed, stilling. “You can do this. _Cuir._ ”

“Coo…”

Din took a fifth step back. “ _Rayshe’a_.”

The kid made grabbing motions for him instead.

“Just a few more. Come on… _Rayshe’a_.”

“ _Buir_.”

Din moved to take another step back when his leg suddenly locked in place. Din jerked, but his foot wouldn’t move; he twisted, but felt held in place. _Stars above,_ Din cursed, noticing the kid’s outstretched hand. He was _being_ held in place.

“Kid,” he eased out, licking his lips. “I need you to let me go.”

The grip on his leg only tightened.

“I know you’re afraid—”

The child shook his head miserably.

“—but you don’t need to do this,” Din said with a swallow, feeling his heart pound in his chest, in his throat, in his ears. “Sweetheart, you never have to force me to stay.”

The kid’s lip wobbled and the hull trembled with it, then gradually the grip around Din’s leg loosened. It sent him toppling forward with something like relief and disbelief. Yet, the relief was short lived.

“Boo nee’ent copa…” 

Din’s mouth fell open. He snapped it closed, trying desperately to hide his shock (the kid rarely said more than a single word and even then, the slightest overreaction could silence him). _A sentence. He’d said a sentence._

“Don’t want you?” Din translated, hurrying to crouch in front of the carrier. “Of course I want you. That’s not what this is about.”

The child still wouldn’t look at him.

“Hey…” Din titled his head, trying to catch the kid’s eye. “Hey, look at me.”

The child squeezed his eyes shut. “Bahd.”

“No,” Din insisted. “You’re not bad.”

He covered the kid’s fist with his own hand, prying open the bunched up fingers. They were small enough to rest easy in the seat of Din’s palm.

“Never to me.”

~*~

Din came up for air like he’d been resuscitated.

His body jerked up, hands searching, eyes flinging around, chest pulsing.

“Easy…” A hand laid on his shoulder. “Easy, mate.”

Din fell back on the bed, flinching as pain filtered out from the dissipating adrenaline. He looked around the room, finding white walls, old food trays, and a door with a security lock (not the familiar beeps of the ship, not steel walls, not big, insistent eyes) and deflated.

“How long—” He cut off, wincing. His throat ached and his eyes felt like they’d been wrung dry. “How long was I under?”

“Seven, maybe eight hours?”

Din could believe it, if the weight pressing down on his bladder was anything to go by. He figured he had an hour at most before the drug took him back under and even that wasn’t enough time to recuperate. His body felt like it’d been run over by a caniphant.

“It was pretty hard to draw you out. Your consciousness refused me a few times.”

Tilly flew back over to his cot, but Din could still feel the creature watching him as if there was a question he wanted to ask. Din had one of his own.

“What…what is the drug searching for again?”

“I already told you—”

“Please just…” Din grit his teeth, closing his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

“Anythin’ you’re hidin’,” Tilly said with a sigh. “People usually hide information thas’ important to them. Something they’re afraid of losing.”

Din’s adam’s apple throbbed in his throat. “Like what?”

“Hell if I know. Info to secret trade routes, rendezvous points, plans to infiltrate a system. Y’know, something thas’ valuable,” Tilly said, then shifted the subject. “I’ve heard it hurts when your secrets are taken. That s’like pulling teeth. Is it true?”

“No,” Din confessed, looking away. “It’s not quite like that.”

He could feel the drug in his mind, hovering like a loth-cat in wait and silently, Din willed for more time. He wasn’t eager to return to that voice — _show me what you know, you want to show me, there’s something you’re hiding_ — and its pull. He understood now why Tilly had bound his hands. Why someone might rip out their own tongue? Or claw their own eyes out? It felt like Din’s mind had been dialed to eleven, leaving him jittery, unsteady, and overstimulated. He could barely construct a thought without feeling drained.

“You call for him in your sleep, y’know?” Tilly said suddenly. “The spaw—Your…”

Din rolled his head to the side. “My, what?”

“Your…child.”

It hurt to swallow, yet the action was instinctive. Din was aware of the ghost-tracks of tears, long-since-dried, on his face. Distantly, he knew it was a byproduct of the drug —every hidden thought and emotion turned over and emptied like a flower pot— and yet, he still felt the burden of the action. He didn’t remember crying, couldn’t remember the last time he did.

“Was I…” Din trailed off. His gaze flickered to the camera, blinking down at them from the ceiling.

“No,” Tilly understood, voice low. “No one woulda heard you but me.”

_As if that was any better._

“Mâg can display your secrets like some twisted shitshow. I’ve seen it on some. Screamin’, hollerin’, babblin’ — the whole nine.” A shiver ran through his wings. “S’all fear and horror. But not you… I guess thas’ not what it does to you.”

Din’s gaze didn’t leave the ceiling.

“You don’t sound afraid,” Tilly remarked and Din felt his whole body tense up, finally catching on.

“Tilly—”

“You sound…wistful. Happy, even.” He shook his head. “Y’sure it wasn’t laced with somethin’ else cus…”

 _Stars above._ Din wanted to groan. Why did he have to be an idiot now?

Din looked at him and Tilly’s mouth fell open.

“Y’can’t mean…? _Shit_ , Mando.”

“Please stop talking.” He swore the heat on his face was imagined.

Din would have turned over if he could move. For now, he was forced to lay on his back, on a cot that was harder than millstone, while the unspoken truth ghosted over the room. He didn’t want to venture near it. But there was a compulsion in his veins forcing him, like a guiding hand on his shoulder, to circle around it, observe it, _name it_.

Of all the things he could hide, moments of happiness was the last thing he had imagined.

“So, were you?”

 _Dank farrick, Tilly._ Din scowled at him, but the question hung in the air just the same. Waiting. Din felt the obligation to speak on his tongue.

“Was I, what?”

“Happy?”

A laugh burst from Din’s lips, sounding more choked and dejected than he’d intended. His eyes traced the ceiling, down the wall, then onto the dark shadows spilling across the floor. He remembered the first time the kid had slipped out of his hanger to sleep with him. He’d pointed to the shadows insistent and frightened and Din, though rolling his eyes, had tugged the kid against his chest. He remembered how the kid’s peach fuzz had tickled his chin, how soft snores whistled against his breastplate, how drool trailed down his wrist.

In those days, the Crest stunk of soiled undergarments and Din used to stub his toes on ship-pieces-turned-toys. He used to feel holes in his shirt from insistent claws that sought him in the dark. He used to smell sour milk on his armor.

It struck Din how little he’d minded, how warm he’d been, how fitting it all felt. How well _they_ fit. His world had become saturated with so many traces of the kid, of happiness, and Din was afraid.

“I…” Din bit his tongue, but the drug was already extracting more sensory memories —soft giggles, stale bread crumbs in his bed, a tiny hand sliding into his— and the truth slipped past his defenses and out his mouth without a fight. “I….was.”

~*~

The next time Din emerged, it was to an ear-splitting headache and a hand on his throat.

He intended to seize the hand, but his brain felt like it was being cracked open. His arms too were weighed down at his sides with a complicity that bordered on stupidity. A hand on his throat at this time? Din never would have given someone the opportunity. _Something was wrong._

“Be at ease, Mandalorian.”

He opened his eyes to find familiar sunken-in sockets staring down at him. The hand on his throat disappeared, but the frown on Syko’s face only deepened.

“On a scale of one to ten, how do you fare?”

“How…do you…think?” He gritted out, pressing his head back into the pillow.

“Your pulse is too fast. I need you to relax,” she said, then stabbing something sharp into his side. “That should help with the pain.”

She pressed a slicka pack to his neck next and Din almost lurched off the cot, feeling the cold scald his skin. It felt like someone had wired his body with an electric prod.

“Don’t—”A hand grabbed his wrists. “Please refrain from breaking your bindings.”

Din clenched his teeth as she continued moving the pack across his neck and down his arms, leaving trails of water warming against his skin. With each swipe, he felt the throbbing in his head diminish, alongside the overstimulated sensation.

The woman reached to her left and an empty cot appeared in the open space behind her. Bleary-eyed, Din surveyed the rumpled blankets. _Where was Tilly?_

“I’m…not getting any better, am I?” Din managed out.

“You only need rest.” Syko removed the pack, feeling his neck again. Her movements were as quick and efficient as the first time, but she moved now like she was running out of time. “Your mind has been weakened. Fatigue is affecting your body’s recovery, but the drug is losing its potency.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She stilled beside him. “I will do what I can.”

“Your _doing_ won’t help me. Not now.”

He averted his eyes to the wall, wishing she’d never come. Her presence wasn’t a saving grace or a safe harbor. If anything, her hands on his skin trying to heal _another thing_ that had been broken only reminded him of all he had lost.

“How are your migraines?”

“They’re still—” Din froze. “I never…said I had migraines.”

Syko’s hands stilled over the kit and even with the lights dimmed, Din noticed a slight tremor in her fingers. “Didn’t you?”

No, he hadn’t, which could only mean…

“You’ve taken Mâgora before.”

“Yes, but your dosage is concentrated and more refined,” she replied lowly, but Din noticed the subject pivot. She spoke like she was engaged in combat, using skilled dodges and parries to answer questions. “It extracts details from your mind in half the time. That’s why its effects are subsiding.”

“You know a lot about it,” Din rejoined.

“I should. I study molecular biology.”

A feint, if ever there was one. It was a concession meant to distract and satisfy his curiosity. Din was not satisfied.

“Why?”

Syko filed a medi-sensor away without looking at him. Her cuffs radiated above the kit, casting the contents in a blue glow. For the first time, Din really looked at them, noticing how different they appeared from his own. The truth was so close to him, he could feel it, but Din doubted Syko would make it plain. He only wondered what her next move would be? Another side-step? An evasion? Din refused to wait to find out.

“Who are you _really_?”

The question hung over the room, breeding a tension that was only thickened further by her silence. It was interrupted by the click of a medpac snapping closed.

“If I told you, I’m afraid you’d consider me an enemy.”

~*~

Tilly returned with bruises and battered wings, and Din didn’t have the heart to ask. The cot squeaked under the creature’s weight as he collapsed onto it wordlessly.

They lay in silence, but he could hear Tilly trying to stifle his wheezing. Din hadn’t spoken properly to the creature since the first time he’d emerged from the drug’s effects. Such effects were dwindling now, leaving only a light mist over his mind that slowed his thoughts, but he wasn’t compelled to speak any longer. Din knew he had the creature’s quick-thinking to thank, but even that fact felt uncomfortable. Their interactions were far from amicable. They helped each other for survival’s sake and out of guilt, Din knew. There had never been more to their relationship then that, which was why Tilly’s continued presence didn’t make any sense? The creature thrived off of exploiting other people’s weak points to his advantage. He was a con artist through and through, and he wasn’t one to have a change of heart. So, why the hell did he come back to warn him?

“Why are you here?” Din blurted out, feeling a rush of anxiety and anger and need. It was a question within a question ( _Here, in this room. Here, helping. Here, acting like you care_ ). “‘ _If things go south, don’t expect me to help…’_ That’s what you said.”

The runes on Tilly’s face burned in the dark. “I know thas’ what I said.”

“Then, why? It’s not like we’re friends.”

“No,” Tilly agreed, but Din heard something else in his tone. Something he couldn’t quite place. “I ‘spose not.”

Silence filled the space between them and it felt appropriate. Or, at least for once in over ten years, the quiet didn’t feel antagonistic.

“‘ _Your people revere children._ ’ S’ what you said before too…” Tilly snorted. “You people always think Diathims just worship whelps. Like we’re some…weak-hearted lot.”

“You do venerate them.”

“That’s because most of our offspring die, Mando,” Tilly hissed, only to glare down at the cot a second later. “Y’can thank those farkled battle droids for that. Bastards decimated our fertilization pods before torching Prime. Some tried to flee to other moons, tryin’ to create new ones, but our pods are older than Drol himself. They’re not so easily re-made.”

 _Fertilization pods_ , Din didn’t know much about them. The only thing he knew, courtesy of a harvest-crazy Gree, was that the pods offered some kind of protection against the elements. Prime was hotter than Aeten, unbearable without a shield garb for most sentients.

“We don’t have a code of conduct, not one thas’ written down anyway. You can bet on one thing though: killing a child, putting their life at risk…? That shit’s worse than death to us.”

“That’s why you came back? Why you’re here?”

They were questions that really weren’t ones.

“S’a reason…among others,” Tilly said cryptically.

Din frowned. “But you’re a con artist.”

“And you’re supposedly some fabled killer who goes all domestic for a wee baby.” Tilly rolled his eyes. “Do you really wanna play this game?”

 _Point taken._ Din exhaled against his cot, feeling only the more confused now. He didn’t know which was worse: not knowing what to do with the history Tilly had given him? Or not knowing _why the hell_ the creature would even relinquish such information? He had to know he was making himself vulnerable, which was something the creature never did. Din had known Tilly for over ten years and yet, how could he possibly feel like he was talking to someone he barely knew?

“You have to know. I never would’ve…” Tilly sighed, wings turning that dull grey color again. “I didn’t know you had a baby, Mando.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“Well, now you do.”

They fell silent and unintentionally, Din thought of Aea and Maisy and Elgie. He recalled the way Aea’s hands shook as she hugged herself, as she spoke about the son she’d lost; he also remembered how he’d woken up to find himself bound and held at gun-point, all because they thought he’d stolen the kid (all because they wanted to keep him safe). He thought about the destruction of Tilly’s home world, and his presence here now. Those moments, though different, felt connected somehow.

Din knew why.

The problem with tragedy was the timeline it always created: the way things were before and the way things _had_ to be after. Before the droids razed Din’s childhood home to the ground, he’d been happy, carefree, defenseless. Afterward, he learned to sleep with a gun in his hand and plan for worse-case scenarios as they emerged (he’d never admit that that habit didn’t start first with the Fighting Corps). Din knew tragedy (though he wasn’t eager to call it that), could recognize its effects in himself, in the ladies, in someone as twisted as Tilly. The past was a seductive thing, drawing one back to a moment and convincing them that they could have changed it (convincing them that if they’d just been _more capable, stronger, more watchful, less naive_ things could have been different, at least that was what Din heard in his nightmares).

It was a load of bullshit. No one could change the past. Hell, even Din knew no act of ingenuity or capability now could rewrite what happened (could bring Aea’s son back, could save Tilly’s dying race or destroyed home-world, could give Din the family he’d lost, could replace the years of terror and darkness the kid experienced). And yet, here they were: beaten and locked in cells, all because they’d tried to protect the kid. 

This was them trying. Maybe not to change the past, but to create a different future.

“You should eat somethin’,” Tilly suggested. 

Din cleared his throat, _trying_. “I never…thanked you for—”

“For savin’ your sanity. I know, y’welcome.”

 _Not just that_ , were the words Din didn’t say.

“You’ve changed, y’know,” Tilly remarked randomly.

“For the worst, I’m sure.”

Tilly turned onto his stomach, wings folding in on himself. “I never said that, mate.”

Din filed the compliment away with an unbidden smirk.

He relaxed into the cot, thankful that his mind didn’t feel as fatigued as it once had, but there was something still gnawing at him. Like loose strings that he couldn’t join together.

“I thought the temple was an illusion.”

Tilly stiffened, clearly wanting to talk about anything else. “It was.”

“Syko. The guard mentioned that name…” Din shook his head. “Terra Syko. That’s the Miralukan woman’s name, and it’s also what the guard said.”

“Yeah, so?”

“The illusion was a lie.”

“Lies are only twisted truths. For the illusion to be believable, some things have to be true. Otherwise, y’won’t believe it—Sorry, why are we talking about this again?”

“I’m not sure…”

Ever since the woman had turned up in his cell, Din couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said. Her words kept eating at him the more he sidelined them.

“What the guard— _the illusion_ — said… That part was true,” Din said, choosing his words carefully. “The woman. She is… a Jedi.”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t she—“ Tilly froze, jolting up, gaping at him now. “Oh fuck.”

“What?“

“He had to—You mean Gideon didn’t tell you?” Tilly whispered.

Din scowled. “I’m afraid we don’t talk much.”

“No, I mean as vindictive as ‘e is, I thought he’d at least have tried to— _Shit_. You mean, you seriously don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“That she’s the reason the kid is here,” Tilly said in a hush. “ _Why_ Gideon knows about ‘im in the first place. She’s the one who sold the kid out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say this chapter took all the emotional, mental, and creative energy I possess, I mean it. This chapter consisted of weeks spent researching seemingly-pointless-though-interesting information about magical realism, speech patterns under stress, child development, bilingualism in two year olds, strategic torture methods (what a thing to say), combat and survival skills, and more. Suffice to say, I wanted to give y'all the absolute best since you've waited so patiently. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Psych-Corner with Din (Aka. The Incredibly Long Therapy Session You Didn't Ask For):
> 
> Din could, very easily, be cast as a flawless guardian. The Disney+ series does an excellent job showing Din’s ability to protect and guard the child. In this story, though, I wanted to humanize Din a bit more. I questioned: how might a man like Din respond to the role of parenthood, especially when it's been thrust upon him?
> 
> For those of you who are familiar with the Enneagram, I wrote Din as a 6w5 (The Guardian/The Defender). An Enneagram six’s core fear usually involves loss of security, protection, or stability. An Enneagram five’s core fear is being incompetent or incapable. Rather than fearing happiness itself, Din fears losing what or who he cherishes (Enneagram 6). As mentioned in one of the earliest chapters of this story, love and loss are two experiences that have been intertwined in Din’s life. As a result, he struggles to press into moments of happiness, love, and connection without expecting loss (this is why he hid some of his happiest memories with Grogu/the Child). To add briefly, Din doesn't realize how Grogu/the Child also evidences the same habit (e.g. playing in the field on Dantooine, then running back to the clearing to make sure Din hasn't left). I wanted to show, principally in this chapter but in the story as a whole, how Din’s fears and the kid’s relational insecurities actually help them develop a deep bond. Din understands the child’s separation anxiety (even if Din’s early experiences produced an avoidant attachment style in him).
> 
> Rather than writing Din as a perfectly stable and healthy parent (which, I don’t believe, most people are), I wanted to write him as a flawed man who stumbled upon parenthood. On the one hand, though he excels at externally protecting the kid (this is where he feels competent), he struggles to let himself connect emotionally for two reasons: on the one hand, he has to give the kid up (so, he shouldn’t get too attached) and on the other hand, he’s afraid of losing the kid and being terrible at parenting. Interestingly enough, these insecurities and fears are what make Din such an endearing father. Rather than write a neat-and-tidy narrative where Din “cures” the kid of his separation anxiety and life is conducive to healing, I wanted to show how Din does not need to be this perfect parent, neither does he need a perfect environment, to cultivate attachment. Secure attachment is more about what the child needs than what the parent thinks they need. 
> 
> In this story, I wanted to create a realistic portrayal of parenting a traumatized child (without fetishizing trauma). Sometimes the kid is scribbling colorful drawings and other times, he’s sullen or angry for seemingly no reason. Sometimes he’s building forts out of Din’s clothes and other times, he’s flinging a cup across the room. Din, in the midst of it all, is a typical frazzled parent. I think there’s something beautiful about that dynamic. Din accepts the child, not because of his powers or sheer cuteness, but because of his quirks — his scribbled-drawings, the make-shift toys he leaves around the ship, and his clinginess. The child also accepts Din, not primarily because he protects him, but because of Din’s quirks as well — his awkwardice, poor conversation skills, and patience. They are an odd pair and I wanted to highlight that reality (this is theme that also exists between Din and the old ladies, and Din and Tilly). Character development does not always mean the protagonist(s) become “healed/good/or so much better” in the end. Sometimes, it just looks like small baby-steps or unsure feet stumbling toward growth.
> 
> In other news, check out my other new [story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959012/chapters/71060928) (if you want something else to read.


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